The Diplomacy
by Girl Glycerine
Summary: Strike meets with Pinky to pay her... however, it seems that Pinky has something else in mind. Please R&R, and make me smile a little ^_^
1. Phase One: Intro

The evening was crisp and breezy, just as he preferred…

He stood atop a tall building, basking in an almost greedy fashion, as the smoke from his blunt danced and created several meandering patterns in the gentle breeze.  He had just finished making a very important phone call… He had been made a very lucrative offer he couldn't refuse.

            An evil smile curled onto his thick lips.  He tossed the blunt roach to the ground and immediately lit up a Newport cigarette for a chaser, and took a swig of Colt 45 from his 40 oz.  The breeze tickled across his handsome face, and danced through his wavy, silky jet black ponytail.  Even in this soft light cast by a half moon, he was drop dead sexy.

            His twin custom Glocks, shiny and menacing, rested securely in their holsters.  His stance was relaxed, but anyone who knew him well could attest that he was forever ready to brawl, even in this intoxicated state.  His bulletproof covered his chest, with an "S" engraved on the front and back.  What a nice gift he'd received from a crooked cop whose life he'd spared years ago.  His Adidas sweatpants were relaxed, but clinging slightly to his well-muscled thighs and flared out slightly because he had them unzipped at the bottom.  He wasn't wearing a shirt, so the glory of his caramel-tanned body was displayed for all to see, his chiseled arms, adorned with six tattoos, and the bottom half of his six pack (and navel!!) was visible.  Everyone who knew him feared him, his reputation was that of a man NOT to be fucked with, by any means.  If anyone had a death wish, they should cross him…

            He chuckled quietly to himself, the moonlight reflecting off of his silver mirror-lensed shades.  What a mysterious man to wear his shades at night.  Funny, because he still never seemed to miss seeing a damn thing.  He brushed his fingers across his carefully trimmed beard, one of his other signatures.  He liked to be different.  He liked to be underestimated.  He loved to be feared…  It was then he realized that he should go down to ground level.

            He couldn't help but smile his famously conceited smile as walked casually down the 29 flights of steps.  He took swigs of the Colt, thinking of his next few days…

            Suddenly, his reverie was broken by a red Acura Legend pulling up to him, coming to a screeching halt.

            "STRIKE!"

            Strike scowled fiercely as his high was almost blown.

            The redhead behind the wheel gave him a concerned look.  He hated it when Strike would send him off when he was making cell phone calls.  Not that he really gave a fuck about what his friend would talk about, but they'd known each other for years.  It was the principle…  His fiery hazel eyes zoomed in to the Newport…

            "You half-black sum-bitch!!  You've been chiefin' without me again?!"

            Strike tittered to himself.  He'd known the ex-racer Heat for so long they were like brothers.  It was Heat and only Heat who could get away with speaking to him in such a manner.

            "You're late, you red-assed fucker.  I tol' you to meet me here fi'teen minutes ago," snarled Strike as he got in on the passenger side.  "Besides, you know how I roll.  Here's a blunt for you."  His voice was so deep it carried a certain ambience all its own.

            Heat smiled like a little kid at Christmastime, tucked the blunt behind his ear, and proceeded to shove a bag full of piping-hot Burger Dog at his boy.  "Remember that next time you have a solo smoke-out, bitch," he grinned maliciously.  Heat was forever talking shit, an ex-F1 racer who survived a violent crash and burn on the track.  Anyone who could survive that deserved to talk all the shit he wanted.  He realized that Strike only had the highest respect for him, along with 2 or 3 other people, and that was a high honor in itself.

            The Munchies were kicking in overdrive as Strike began to viciously snarf down a Triple Deck Burger with cheese.  Eating was the only time that Strike's suave and casual demeanor would switch to Primal Cave Man, with ear-assaulting grunts and belches here and there.  It was quite disgusting at times, but Heat could even rival him…

            "So where to, Captain Cro-Magnon Man?" asked Heat as he pulled off, steering with one hand, eating fries with the other.

            "Shit… drop me off at the HQ," grunted Strike through a mouthful of burger.  "I need to meet up with my gang and tell them I'll be away handlin' business for a couple of days."

            Heat nodded.  "Yes'm, Miss Daisy.  So I take it your deal went through, hermano?"  He couldn't hide the fact that he had some Latin in him if he tried…

            "Yeah… when e'ything goes down, you talkin' 'bout a muthafuckah getting paid hella cheese for this shit here.  I'm gonna need your help, you know, so I'll be more than happy to break you off for your services."

            "Man, keep your money.  I'm still getting paid for the crash… You know I tag along with you for the adventure…"

            "'Tag along'? Please, you know you play a more integral role than that," said Strike.  It was funny how he could curse like a sailor one minute and use a very broad vocab the next.  Heat was one of the only other people in Strike's selective circle of peeps who knew just how intelligent he really was.

            "Well…. Hamm asked about you, by the way.  Said he's got some 'Maui Wowie' for you," reported Heat.

            "That fat fucker," grinned Strike.  "He knows he gets the most fi' shit, working at Burger Dog just to front."  Strike had also known Hamm for quite some time, and they were pretty good friends.  Hamm would serve as weed provider and valuable informant, and for that, Strike provided him with loyal friendship.  "We'll swing by there after my meeting with the Kings."

            Strike was the leader of a deadly street gang called the Straight Kings.  Only because of him was their reputation known all across Japan and even parts of China and the U.S.  He was known as a vicious, heartless, cruel, but fair leader, and to betray or dishonor him meant death.  And most of the time, Strike would be the one to handle those affairs himself.  All recruits had to pass strict initiations and be as tough as steel; a gang leader is only as legit as the gang members representing him.

            Heat's hazel eyes glimmered in the moonlight, he was in deep reflection and planning on what he was going to do after he smoked his blunt.  Heat was a handsome creature himself, with his adorable cheeks, fire-red hair and distinct Latino facial features, not to mention a hint of the accent in his voice at times.  Even though he no longer desired to race, he was still a worldwide celebrity and a walking miracle.  At first he despised the distinguishing scar over his right eye, but Strike helped him see that it was a "Battle Wound," a sign that he'd made it through the impossible and that he was very blessed.

            Strike looked to the back seat for another bag of food and caught a glimpse of several porn tapes…

            "What the hell?" said Strike, "What's up with all this porn, man?  You still ain't got no lovin' yet??  Wit' cha meat-beatin' ass, man, go get some cut!!  I know you got chicks from here to Taiwan trying to (ahem) handle your stick shift."

            "Man, FUCK THAT, a'ight?  There are _diseases_ out there and I ain't sticking my shit in just anything.  I'm waiting for the right lady to come along.  LADY, not bitch.  Hell, you feel the same way… I don't see _you_ running around with this ho and that ho."

            "Hmmph… You got a point."

            "Thank you.  Hey, we're almost there," announced Heat through a mouthful of fries.

            Damn, that didn't take long.  But when you're cruising with a speed demon, what do you expect?

Please review and make me smile… Girl Glyce^^.


	2. Phase Two: The Meeting

Please don't bite…

            "All right ya'll," said Strike in a very stern, harsh voice.  He had called a meeting with the Straight Kings at one of their underground hideouts.  Everyone was as still as a painting, hanging on to his every word.  This was their leader and they had hellified respect for him.  Strike gave them much respect and demanded it back; if he heard so much as a stomach growling during a meeting, he would single the person out, feed them (food is a post-meeting treat), and proceed to kick the person's ass in front of the others.  (Hey, most people learn best by example).

            "I'm gonna be away on business for a couple of days, maybe a week or two, tops.  I'll be venturing to Osaka, and just in case I need back up, be on stand-by.  Just 'cause I'm gone, I don't want no slacking, a'ight?  Ya'll need to maintain the operations at the docks in South Kogane.  Ya'll know I can see everything, so don't fuck up!!" said Strike, pacing back and forth amidst the circle of his "family".  "If any problems come up, handle it on your own!  I know I've instilled something into your thick-ass skulls!  DO NOT contact me unless it's an emergency.  If I rush back to Tokyo on some bullshit, somebody dies!!  Do I make myself clear?"

            "HAI!" responded all the gang members.

            "Good.  Peace… I'm out," ended Strike, proceeding to light a blunt and walked away.

            Outside Heat was sitting on the hood of his Acura, taking deep hits from his blunt.  He didn't like to sit in on too many of Strike's meetings.  Being around too many of those cutthroat individuals made him uneasy.  Even though the Kings were also like a second family for him, he only trusted Strike.  Besides, he really wasn't too keen on being up in all of Strike's business like that.

            His concentration was broken when he sensed the presence of someone approaching.  He looked over his shoulder to see a tall figure carrying a suitcase.

            "You know, sometimes I hate it when you insist on staying outside during my meetings," said Strike, motioning for Heat to open the trunk so he could set his suitcase in it.

            "Don't be that way," said Heat, slowly getting off the hood.  "I feel like I have certain boundaries.  Sometimes I don't wanna know who you're planning on killing beforehand.  I'd rather just be surprised, just like in the movies."

            "You have an interesting way of putting things…" frowned Strike.  "Shit, you know our hideouts are like a second home for you…"

            "Yeah… thanks…." said Heat, closing his trunk.  "So you ready to holler at Hamm?"

            "Yeah," said Strike, "let's make this shit quick.  I'm eager to get to Osaka."

            Thus the next journey began…

            At the Burger Dog, Hamm was getting his dance on at the jukebox.  His favorite song, "I luv hamburgers" was playing loudly.  The restaurant was packed and conversations were lively.  A handful of people were on the dance floor, moving and grooving.

            Strike and Heat walked in, and upon seeing them, everybody shut up _immediately_.

            "Carry on," said Strike, waving his hand casually,  "I'm not here to kill anybody tonight."

            Conversations started back.

            "What's goin' on, Strike?"  said Hamm warmly as he gave his boy some dap.

            "Ain't nuttin', man," replied Strike.  "Just wanted to come by and holla at ya for a second.  Heard you got a little present for me."

            "Oh yeah!  And I gotta tell ya, it's very, very, very, very, very, _VERY_, very good," said Hamm, smiling from ear to ear and secretly handing Strike a rather fat Ziploc bag.

            "Oh, shit…. I can smell it through the bag, baby!" cheesed Strike, quoting a line from his favorite movie.  (Half-Baked, for those who are unaware…)

            "Hey, I know you're gonna need some more grub after that," said Hamm, walking behind the counter.  He talked to one of his employees and they immediately left, then came back with five large heaping bags of food.

            "Diiiii-amn," said Heat, "you must be manager now or somethin'."

            "Yeah…. two days ago," said Hamm.

            "Well well, lookie who's comin' up in the world after 5 years," grinned Strike.  "We're gonna celebrate when I get back!"

            "A'ight.  Thanks," glowed Hamm.  "Bring me a souvenir!"  He never bothered to ask questions.  Strike wouldn't have had it any other way.

            11 PM, Heat's Private Jet…

            "We could've driven to Osaka, you know," said Heat.  He was high as a kite and busy slaughtering a bag of Burger Dog and other assorted snacks.

            "Yeah, we could.  But I'm in a hurry.  I like to start on my work immediately, you know," mused Strike, smoking yet another blunt, his 11th that night.  "I have a lot of work to do back in Tokyo… and time is a luxury I can't afford."

            "So what exactly do you have to do?"

            "A li'l bit of e'ything, including my favorite… torture…" purred Strike.  He turned up a large bottle of OE.

            "Ooh… can I help?" Heat's face lit up.

            "Oh, hell YEAH!" laughed Strike, Cold-Stone Steve Austin style.  "I know you haven't got your char on in quite a minute, and we'll _really_ be in the mood for Cajun soon…"

            Upon arrival to one of Osaka's smaller airports, a rental car was already waiting for the two.

            Twenty minutes later, they checked into a small hotel room and Strike immediately took to the roof on his cell phone.

            "Hello?  Yeah.  I'm here.  I'll be ready to start on this shit soon.  Do you have my money?*" asked Strike.                      (*Japanese)

            "Yes… I will be more than happy to deliver it to you," responded the voice on the other end.

"When do you want to meet me?"

"When the job has been finished…"

"…_FUCK THAT_.  As many jobs as I've done for you and you're still comin' off on me with this fuck shit?!?  Joke or no joke, have you forgotten who the fuck you're dealing with?!  I know where you live.  I know where you work.  I know what school your kid goes to.  I know where your wife goes to get her hair done.  I know when and where you play golf every Saturday.  And I also know about your mistresses.  I'm sure your wife would be outraged if she found out you're fucking your secretary… Need I continue?" Strike's voice was dripping with violent and malicious intent.  Anger rested on his face like it was a second home.

"… Very well...  I'll have one of my men deliver it to you.  Where are you?"  The discomfort in the person's voice was painfully obvious.

"I'll meet them behind the furniture store… the usual spot.  30 minutes," growled Strike, "I've been _very_ nice to you this far.  _DON'T_ get on my bad side… not now."  He disconnected the call without so much as a goodbye.

When Strike got back to the room, Heat was on his hands and knees in front of the microwave, watching intently as a bag of popcorn spun around, weed smoke heavy on the air.  A little drool dangled from his bottom lip, eagerly anticipating the buttery goodness.

Strike leaned against the door, trying to maintain his composure.  What he wouldn't do for a camera right now.

"'Ey, Li'l Droolie," said Strike.

"Hunh?" Heat looked up at him.

"I, uh… need to go handle some business right quick," said Strike, carefully.  "I'll be back in an hour."

"Need some help?" drawled Heat.  Strike couldn't tell whether his eyes were opened or closed.

"Oh… uh…. Naw… I'll be back.  Enjoy your popcorn," said Strike, and left quickly.

Strike's journey through the intricate sewer system came in handy, as usual.  He'd gotten blueprints from a "friend" when he started frequenting Osaka on business.  He would never drive to meet people who were delivering money to him; he didn't want to risk being followed.  Sure, it was unpleasant, but it's always better to be safe than sorry.

He waited behind the furniture store for 10 minutes before a man dressed in a long black trench coat arrived with a large metal briefcase.  The man handed it to him, and Strike immediately tried to open it to make sure the money was there…

"Hey!  Why in the hell is this shit locked?" frowned Strike.

"You get the keys when the job is done," replied the man.

"Is this some kind of fucking _joke_?!" Strike yelled, clearly outraged.

"I'm only delivering the message…"  The man was obviously growing afraid, trembling at the frightening volume of Strike's voice.

Strike threw the briefcase down and clutched the man's neck tightly.  He pulled out a Chrome Desert Eagle and shoved the barrel painfully into the man's temple.  "You know, your boss ain't never pulled no fuck shit like _this_ before.  I'm supposed to believe he's trippin' on me now?!"

"I'm just doing my job!!"

"_Fuck your job!_  I couldn't give a fuck less about _you_.  Now you either come up off the keys or I'll just search your lifeless body for them!"

"I don't have the keys, man, I **SWEAR**!"

Strike detected the smell of fresh piss and looked down at the man's pant leg.  There was a trail of wetness seeping down…

"Muthafucka," he snarled, shoving the man to the ground, returning to English.  "You tell your boss he's gonna hear about this.  Be_lieve_ that."  He snatched up the briefcase and disappeared into the shadows.

Back in the hotel room, Strike was seething with anger.  Even in all his years of lock picking, he couldn't get the briefcase open.

The bare aura of Strike's anger was so great that it blew Heat's high.  He'd considered putting Fire power to the briefcase, but if it worked, the risk of burning the money was too great.  Not only that, the metal it was made of was unlike anything either of them had seen.  Heat didn't think that an adverse reaction was worth it.

"So what are you gonna do about this, essa?" asked Heat, still eating.

"Whadda you think?" fumed Strike, with a (Oh So Sexy!!!!) sneering grin seeping onto his face.  He was sitting in an armchair with his arms crossed, his whole posture spelled 'I'm pissed'.  The briefcase was sitting on a coffee table with Heat's laptop, and Heat was in an armchair across from Strike, surrounded by a circle of food.

Heat knew the implication of the look.  "Man, what are you cooking up over there?  Are you still gonna go through with the job?"

"Oh, yes… I'm gonna _do_ this fuckin' job, alright.  But now… I have a little side project to work on.  This man has never pulled a stunt like this with me before.  And by time I get through wit' him, I'm gonna make sure he _never_ does it _AGAIN_."

            I hope you all like this… Really!  Please let me know!  Oh, BTW, I'm aware that the Japanese don't have _actual_ swear words (like the ones Strike abuses so much), but you can ascertain a lot from the tone of voice.  Please review and make me smile!^_^.


	3. Phase Three: Hear Komes Trouble

You know the drill… Please, please don't bite.  It's not nice.

The next morning, Heat was fighting off the most powerful hangover in history while trying to navigate his way through the Internet.  Strike managed to find the name of the company that manufactured the briefcase; it was engraved in an obscure corner.  Strike was in between smoking, eating, and polishing his guns lovingly.

            "Hey, Strike," said Heat, a frown of frustration on his face.  "What's that guy's name that you're working for?"

            "Kinoshima.  Why?" he asked.

            "Doesn't he have his own company?"

            "Several.  What's up?"  Strike got up to get a look-see at the computer screen.

            "Well, it says here that he just opened a new company… the one that happens to have manufactured this briefcase we've got here," declared Heat.

            Strike looked at the screen carefully.  "I see he's changed his logo around," he muttered, turning up his nose.  The new logo was a picture of a happy looking-ass rat.  "Does it say what material the briefcase is made of?"

            "Gimme a sec…" Heat attempted to click onto the 'product description' icon.  Seconds later, he got a screen saying, "We're sorry.  But you cannot access this information from your screen ID."

            "Da fuck?!" scowled Heat.  "Please, this is HEAT'S screen ID…. EVERYTHING       is accessible to me!!"  He furiously began typing away, trying to see if he could somehow bypass the screen, to no avail.

            "Don't you have another screen ID?" asked Strike, representing 'The People's Eyebrow'.

            "HELL no… I AM HEAT, damn it!!"  He was obviously losing it.

            Strike only watched on.  It wasn't often that Heat got like this, so he let him go through his rant.

            "You know, I get people BEGGING me to endorse shit like this little shit-ass briefcase!  Who the hell are these people to deny ME access!!!…."

            Strike went to the bathroom to piss, heated a couple of burgers, and smoked a quarter of another fattie (bom-battie) before Heat finished.

            "You know you can get an aneurysm doing shit like that," said Strike, ever so calmly.

            "Man, fuck you, a'ight?  Nobody isolates me—"

            "Okay, Sir Rant-A-Lot," interrupted Strike.  "Why do you think you got that message?"

            Heat stopped, stuck at the question.  "Because they don't want me to get hold of this information…"

            "You think?  But why?"

            "Well… everybody in the world knows that we hang tight and shit…" He snapped his fingers.  "That's gotta be it, man… this dude knew I'd try to check this info, for you!  He's trying to make sure that you don't get that briefcase open!"

            "That son-of-a-bitch!  But why is he pulling this shady shit wit' me, as many times as I've done favors for him?"

            "Sounds like some ol' 'Okey Doke' to me," muttered Heat.  "Didn't you say that this was your biggest job ever for this cat?"

            "Yeah, but that ain't shit, you know?  I'm a man of my word.  Kinoshima knows this.  There's something bigger going on," mused Strike, starting to get pissed again.

            "Think it's a set-up?"

            "Could be.  Right now, I don't trust this dude as far as I can throw him.  But hell, as long as I'm out here, I'm still going through with it all.  I think I'll just create my own little insurance policy."  Strike smirked and put his hands together in a meditative fashion…

            That afternoon, Strike and Heat sat atop a tall building overlooking a private grade school, with binoculars, food, drink, music and of course, Hamm's Maui Wowie.  The day was rather long and it gave them the chance to make back-up plans…

            Heat was busy tapping into different phone calls made in the area.  When Kinoshima's daughter made a phone call to him via cell phone, he picked up the frequency and got the number.  He switched and scrambled the frequencies on Strike's cell phone and gave him a voice modification headpiece.  (Yeeeaaah, baby, Heat's got gadgets!)

            "You sure this is gonna work?" asked Strike, looking skeptically at the equipment, putting on the headset.

            "Of course.  Who am I?" asked Heat, turning slightly red at the fact that Strike was questioning his _divine_ technological know-how.

            "Why can't you talk to the little girl?  I'm not good at that type a' thing."

"Because you're the one who works for ol' dude…  I don't know his vocal mannerisms," responded Heat, smugly.

"Yeah, yeah…  Listen, the lunch bell's ringing."

            "I bet that's the only thing you miss about school, isn't it?"

            "Suck a fat one," sneered Strike.  He dialed the number.  His phone was hooked up to Heat's laptop for a speaker effect in case Heat had to rectify any problems with the voice modifier.

            "Hello?" a cute little schoolgirl voice answered sweetly.

            "Hi, there, Punkin'," said Strike, repeating the pet name from the previous phone call.  He turned up his nose, and he had to fake a slight French accent.

            All the little girl heard was the voice of her daddy.

            "Hey, Papa!" giggled the little girl, all bubbly.  "Are we still gonna go out to dinner tonight?  You canceled the last eight times, you know, and you absolutely promised this time!"

            "Yes, yes, I know.  In fact, I thought it would be fun if we played a little game."  Strike was obviously disturbed, talking in such a fake manner.

            "Oh, really?!  A game, Papa?"  The little girl's voice was filled with so much hope.

            "Of course, really...  I'm going to send a very special friend of mine to come and get you, but you're going to have to leave the building now and find him!"

            "(GASP) I get to leave EARLY?  Oh, Papa!  What does the guy look like?!  He'll never know what hit him!"

            Strike looked at Heat and made the funniest face, an unimpressed sneer mixed with a look of "Oh Please."  Heat tried not to laugh.

            "He's really tall, kind of dark skinned and he's got long black hair.  He'll have a friend with him and they'll take you for a spin in my new car."

            "Oh Goodie!  Can I leave right now?"

            'Didn't_ I just SAY that,'_ thought Strike.  "Yes, he'll be across the street from the school… but this is my little prank on the school, you see, so you'll have to be careful that no one sees you.  Now hurry, Punkin', I'll see you shortly."

            "Okay, Papa.  I love you."

            Silence.  Strike looked at Heat like 'what the fuck'??

            "_Say it back_," hissed Heat.

            "_Shhheeeeit_," mouthed Strike.  "Oh, um… yes, Punkin', I know.  Now hurry!"  Strike quickly disconnected.

            "What's with you?" smirked Heat, amused.  He knew how Strike despised children.

            "Heat, I don't say shit like that, even in _playin_'.  _Fuck_ that."

            Heat shook his head and began to pack up his equipment.  "Well you'd better get going, hermano.  The li'l young'n sounded like she was really excited.  I gotta finish packin' up so I can get the car."

            "Remind me to kick your ass when we get back to Tokyo," said Strike through clenched teeth, and proceeded to find his way downstairs.

            Not even 10 minutes later, a little girl with brown hair pulled into two cute ponytails came bounding across the street.  Obviously she had taken time to change clothes, because she was not wearing a uniform.  Instead, she was wearing a bright pink and magenta striped shirt with over-sized sleeves, a backwards cap, and some huge overalls with an adorable mouse chillin' in the front pocket.  Her eyes were wide and sparkling with energy, her cute cheeks flushed from the sugar rush – er, I mean, excitement of her stealth assassin-like escape from the school.  She looked at Strike and knew he was the man of which her Papa spoke.  She was scared as shit at first (he was scary lookin'!!), but bounded to him happily anyway.  As she was preparing to wrap her short arms around his legs—

            A large hand cupping over her forehead stopped her in her tracks.  (She was still reaching out though…)

            Strike looked down at the young girl in absolute horror that she almost touched him, and you'd better believe it was screwed utterly into his face.  

            "What's wrong, mister?  You don't like hugs?" asked the little girl after she gave up on the hugging concept.

            "No… not really.  I'm not the touchy-feely type.  You must be little Punkin', huh?  Your dad said you were full of energy."

            "Only my Papa can call me Punkin'," said the little girl.  "But you can call me Shorty."

            Strike glanced down at the spirited child with an almost condescending look of disdain, only to remember he had to be nice to her.

            "Hello, Shorty," he said curtly, giving her a good once-over.  She certainly did not look Asian at all, but that's when he remembered her father was an ambassador from France.  He thought it would be proper to give himself a Japanese name for the sake of fitting in a little better.  "My name is Mr. Hahn, but you can call me Strike for short."

            "'Strike?'  What kind of retarded name is _that_?" giggled Shorty.  Her mouse seemed to laugh along with her.

            Strike's trigger finger was itching _eeever-so-slightly_ against the Desert Eagle he carried in the small of his back…

            Shorty's life was saved, _only_ by Heat pulling up in the rental car.

            Strike heaved a sigh of relief.  "Come on, Shorty, we've got a lot of riding around to do!"

            The afternoon was fun for Shorty and harrowing for Strike and Heat.  The two of them stayed away from children at all costs, but they had to earn her trust.  But soon, it all came to an end after they picked up some food and went back to the hotel.  (Of course, Shorty was blindfolded…after all, it _was_ all a part of the game)…

Hope ya'll like how it's coming along… Let me know!  Please review.


	4. Phase Four: Babysitting...

I'm baaaa-ack.  You know the drill…

            "Hee hee!  Okay, guys, what's the next part of the game?" giggled Shorty.  She was still blindfolded as Strike carried her into the room.  Heat only looked on, still amused.  Strike's facial expression indicated that he was going to be sick.

            "The next part, my dear, is called 'Statue'.  We have to see who can be still the longest," Heat grinned, winking at Strike.  Heat was really good with li'l young'ns, but he'd never admit it.

            'How clever,' thought Strike.  He sucked with kids; he'd rather play kickball with them… as the ball, that is.  He placed Shorty in the chair.  "You comfy?" he asked.

            "Yeah, silly!  When can we eat?"

            "In about 5 minutes.  You can stay still that long, can't you?" asked Heat, getting a rope out of Strike's backpack.

            "You bet!  I can beat you guys at any game in the world, you know.  How am I supposed to know that you're staying still, too?"

            "Well it's just gonna be you and Strike, kiddo," said Heat.  "I have to get the food ready."

            Strike sneered at Heat.  'Subeta,' he thought.

            Heat smiled and handed Strike the rope, then went to the kitchenette to get the grub together.

            Shorty sat in the chair grinning, just itching to move.  The small rat in her pocket sniffed around and squeaked in slight worry and confusion.  (If one can really ascertain an animal's emotions…)

            Strike observed the rat, twitching his nose like he was about to sneeze.  He despised rodents almost as much as he despised children.  He liked to use them as target practice though, especially squirrels.  The rodent's squeaks began to annoy him to no end, and that's when he remembered that animals could sense danger.  Strike looked over to Heat and saw the annoyed look on his face.  Heat held his arms out like "Can you do something about that Gawd-awful racket???"

            Stifling his violent tendencies, Strike had to save his sanity.  "Say, Shorty… uh… does that rat have a name?"

            "He's not a rat!"  Shorty huffed defensively.  "He's a mouse."

            _"Rat, mouse, disease carrier, flea factory, it's all the same,"_ muttered Strike.  "What's his name?"

            "Columbo," beamed Shorty proudly.  "I thought of the name all by myself!"

            "How… _creative_… of you," Strike tried fakely.  "Could you get him to shut the f- I mean, calm down?"

            "He's just hungry.  Are you gonna feed him, too?"

            Strike slapped his forehead.  By God, this was a patience-testing situation.  "We don't have any cheese."

            "Columbo eats anything!" grinned Shorty.

            _'There's a joke in there somewhere,'_ thought Strike.  "Well… sure, he can eat too."

            Heat finally saved the day (again) when he brought out several plates full of pizza and burgers to the two.

            "What a cute rat," Heat drawled in a thick Southern accent.  He held his hand out to the mouse, only to have Columbo try to clamp his fucking fingers off.

            Heat clutched his hand, reeled and almost yelped, only at the fact that he could have potentially lost his digits.  By reflex, he set his hand ablaze with fire in his eyes, preparing to char the little bastard.

            Strike grabbed Heat's arm.

            _"Chill, man!"_ he hissed in Heat's ear.  _"Besides, if anyone is gonna off that little future road kill, it's gonna be me!!"_

            Heat glared at Strike.  _"Why do **you** get to have all the fun?"_

            _"Your time is coming.  Now entertain this little brat; I gotta make a phone call,"_ he said, and left the room.

            Strike sat on the roof of the hotel, making another cell phone call.  As the phone rang, he looked up into the beautiful twilight sky.  The sun had finally set except for a tiny sliver of light on the horizon creating gorgeous gentle orange, red, and smoky blue across the sky.  The moisture in the clouds reflected the colors perfectly.  What a sight.  Strike would never admit it, but he had a few aesthetic qualities about him…

            "Moshi moshi?"

            "What's goin' on?" asked Strike.  It was one of his fellow gang members.

            "Things are running smoothly," the voice reported.

            "Good.  Keep it that way."  Strike ended the call and took a swig of Tequiza.  Sometimes he had to check up on his gang.  He was like father off on a road trip and just checking to see if the children were behaving like they were supposed to.

            Strike's cell phone rang.  He checked the number and a wicked smile spread across his face.

            "What?" he answered harshly.

            "Strike?"  It was Kinoshima.  Worry was clinging to his every word.  "I need your help."

            "REeeally?" Strike drawled, taking another sip of his liquor.  "You sound distraught.  Is everything alright?"  He had to sound like he was just SSSOOOO concerned…

            "No… no it's not."  Kinoshima-san sounded like he was near tears.  "It… it's my little Pumpkin."

            "Your little girl?  Oh my God-- what happened?  Is she okay?"  Strike was cackling madly inside.

            "No… Strike… my little one didn't come home from school today… no one saw her after lunch… I fear that someone has kidnapped her!  I wouldn't know what to do if something bad happened to her…"

            "So… why the fuck are you callin' _me_ about this??  Do I look like I print pictures on milk cartons?"  Strike had to let that one out.

            "I know you are upset because of the briefcase… but this is the largest project I've asked you to do for me.  I had to make sure you wouldn't back out on me," sobbed Kinoshima.

            Strike rolled his eyes and made a motion with his arm like he was jerking off.

            "I have many enemies here now… Many people are threatening to take my life.  These same people have also threatened my family.  I fear that some of these people have taken my child.  Please… please… I'll pay you whatever you wish extra.  Please find my baby girl!"

            "Hmph," grunted Strike, like he was deep in thought.  "I don't know.  I don't do rescues.  That would make me into some kind of twisted anti-hero.  I have a reputation to maintain."  (Strike is so cold hearted.)

            "Please!  Name your price!  I will have the money to you tonight… My God…"  His voice trailed off.  Kinoshima was obviously quite frazzled, sniffing and sobbing uncontrollably.

            Strike wrinkled his nose and pondered.  He hadn't expected this at all.  "Look, shouldn't you be calling the police about this?"

            "I should… but at this point I can't.  Do you realize I have my hand in three illegal pies that could have me extradited from this country??  If the police begin an investigation, MY reputation is in jeopardy."

            "So you care more about your fucking rep than you do your own child?"

            Silence.  Sob.  Sniffle.  More silence.

            "You know what?  I'll look into it, but I will never do a favor like this for you again," hissed Strike maliciously.

            Kinoshima heaved a sigh of relief.

            "If you don't give a damn about your family--I know you don't even honor your marriage--you ain't shit.  You're less than a man.  Family comes before any reputation you'll ever have.  Just because you can't cover your dirty little tracks, you come cryin' and whinin' at me like I'm fuckin' Rescue 911 and shit.  That's _NOT_ my problem.  I'm not here to fix your fuck-ups, you understand me, and if you **_EVER_** fix your fuckin' mouth to ask me for some shit like this again, I'll make sure the next person you talk to will be the Almighty Himself.  You hear me??  Fuck you, a'ight?  This'll cost you an extra 6 million, and get me the key to the briefcase when the original job is done.  **DON'T** call me again about this.  I will find your brat," snarled Strike.  Every word cut Kinoshima to his very _SOUL_.

            "Thank you… thank you so--"

            Before he could finish, Strike ended the call.  He despised weak individuals.  Especially those that had a family who cared about them but they didn't seem to realize it.  However… this had just given him yet another advantage…  He turned up the lime-flavored Tequiza and killed it in one gulp, then looked into the now-night sky.  A strong breeze blew and Strike released a wicked cackle that would send a _chill down your spine…_

Wooooo!  Things are really pickin' up, huh?  Let me know what you think.  Please review and let me know what you like and quite possibly what you may want to see!  Anybody who's checked this out and left a review, thanks for your support.  Girl Glyce.


	5. Phase Five: Boys Will Be Boys...

            Heat was shocked when Strike walked through the door.

            Strike was surprised when he walked in.  The scene was chaotic to say the least.

            Shorty was still blindfolded, sitting bound in the chair.  She was a terrible mess with food stains all over her clothes.  Food was all over the room, and Heat was on his knees with Columbo firmly gripped in his left hand, fire blazing from his right.  His clothes and hair were a mess, and he was clearly irate.

            "What the fuck?!?!" yelled Strike.  He pulled out his Glock 9 and aimed it at Heat.  "You drop that little bastard rat right now!"

            "He's not a rat, he's a--" tried Shorty.

            "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" yelled Heat and Strike simultaneously.

            "I told you that rodent is MINE, Heat; drop the little fucker and BACK back!!" snarled Strike.

            "And you can suck a fat one, Strike!!" yelled Heat.  "This little bastard tried to amputate my fingers for the LAST time!!!"

            Shorty was giggling to her heart's content.  She had no idea what was going on; she thought it was all part of the game.  "You guys are so nice to play with Columbo, too!" she smiled.

            The tension was so thick you would have to cut it with a sword.  This was obviously another testosterone-fueled standoff between the two (it wasn't the first!!).

            "Put him down, Heat.  Just put him down, nice and easy, and step away from the rat," said Strike, gently tickling the trigger on his Glock.

            Heat knew that Strike wouldn't bring or allow any harm to him; the gun-pulling was only on instinct.  He shot Strike a defiant look; the flame in his hand grew larger.

            Columbo squeaked, squeaked, squeaked, trying to get loose, and finally landed his tiny jaws on one of Heat's fingers… again.

            Heat yelped in pain, tossing the rat into the air.  Without missing a beat, Strike re-holstered his weapon and leaped into a flying tackle, catching Columbo.  As soon as he was about to land, he felt a hand grip his ankle and yank him back.  The two tumbled around furiously, wrestling for the custody of the hungry rodent.

            "Raise up!!" yelled Strike.

            "He's mine!!  He bit me… three times…!" growled Heat.

            The wrestling continued, and Strike still had his right hand around Columbo.  He cupped his left hand over Heat's forehead and tried to push him away, but Heat was persistent.  Finally, Strike decided he'd had enough, and ended the whole confrontation with a deadly resounding fart, leg raised and all.

            Completely appalled, Heat threw himself back, covering his nose.  "You nasty muthafuckah!!!!" he shrieked.  "I can't believe you went there, homes!"

            Strike pulled himself up from the floor.  "Yeah, Heat, WHUT!!  I told you EVERY part of my body is a fuckin' weapon!"  For a split second, he looked a little blank, and then he started laughing his ass off.  "Dude, you should've seen the look on your face!!" he cackled.  "That shit was classic!"

            "Eeeeewwwww, you guys smell rank…" trailed Shorty before she passed out.  Literally.

            Heat regained his composure, only slightly.  "Well, at least 'sunshine and giggles' is out of our hair for a while.  Damn, Strike, you stank.  You didn't even have to go there to win," sneered Heat, even though he was laughing himself.

            Strike patted his own ass.  "Don't be mad 'cause you didn't think of it first.  Besides, you know I got that from you."

            "Man, fuck you.  Damn, now it's a fuckin' fart cloud of death hangin' up in the air and shit," said Heat, still holding his nose and opening a window.  His eyes were watering.

            Strike fell on the floor laughing.

Boys will be boys…

            "So what's the deal, now?" asked Heat.  A few hours had passed and the two were sitting by the window chiefing.  Columbo was tied up with a twist-tie around his snout, on the kitchenette counter where he wouldn't be a bother.  Shorty was still unconscious.

            "I got a couple of new developments going," said Strike with a throat full of smoke.  "Things have taken an interesting twist.  However, I can't help but want to get a couple of other people involved."

            "What?  I thought you worked alone," sniped Heat knowingly.

            "No, more than occasionally, I work with you.  You my boy.  You my muh-fuckah.  Shit, we go way back.  You are one of the few people that I trust.  However," he said, expelling the smoke, "it's important that we… cover our tracks."

            "Okay, 'Mr. Fixer'," said Heat.  "Who's life are you gonna ruin this time?"

            "Hmmm… that's a good question," mused Strike.  He reached into one of his suitcases and pulled out a legal pad.

            "Oh, GOD, do you take that with you everywhere you go?" asked Heat.

            "Of course," he replied, thumbing through the pad.  Three columns of names appeared on the front and back of at least 20 pages.  "You never know when you'll have to put another name on the ol' 'Shit List'.  Besides, _this_ is the list of people who owe me favors."

            Heat took a big hit from his blunt, and chased it with some Tequiza.  "Yeah, I thought that was a little too thin to be the _real_ shit list," he mused with a hint of sarcasm.

            "Hmm, let's see.  Aha, got it.  I found someone who can help us out.  I'll be making a phone call tomorrow while we're making our rounds."

            "Rounds?" asked Heat.

            "Yup.  Gotta little bitch huntin' to do."

            "So who's gonna stay here with these two?"

            Strike pulled out huge bottles of Gin, Rum, Tequila, and Vodka.  "You ever heard of the 'Nighty-night cocktail'?"

            "You're gonna give them alcohol?!" laughed Heat.

            "Hell to the yeah," snarled Strike.  "This'll keep 'em out of our hair long enough for us to finish our unholy bid-ness!"

            Heat put out his blunt.  "Yeah, okay.  You know what you're doing, and personally, I wish you'd off that damn bastard rat now."

            "Nah," said Strike, "I've observed an odd little connection between the two of them.  Besides, that's the same rat that Kinoshima used for his new logo on the website.  There's something really important about it.  After I find out, of course, all bets are off."

            Heat sat quietly in thought.  He had an idea of what Strike was getting at, but it was too early to jump to conclusions.  "I've been hanging around you too long, essa," he sighed with a smile, and got up to fix himself some real food.

            Strike looked over to Shorty and her rat.  "_You just don't know how much you're helping me out_," he thought, with a sinister expression on his face.  "_You just DON'T know…_"


	6. ...* A Notorious Flashback*...

            The next morning…

            After Strike prepared his infamous "Nighty-Night cocktail" and gave it to the little one and her rodent, he and Heat were off.

            Despite the cocktail, Strike wanted to make his rounds quickly.  He felt uneasy about leaving the two alone, as did Heat.

            This time, Strike played wheelman to allow Heat the opportunity to play around with the laptop a little.

            "Okay, Strike.  What's gonna be up today?  You said we have three vital points to hit in a very short amount of time," said Heat.

            "First, I need you to send an email to Hiro," replied Strike.  He was smoking a cigarette, driving with one hand, comfortably leaning as far back as the seat would go to accommodate his long legs.  Talk about gangsta lean…

            "Hiro?  You mean that Italian cat we met at Disco Fashion?"

            "Yup.  I found out he's quite a computer nerd- no offense- and I'm sure I can talk him into hacking into Kinoshima's database."

            "Yeah, he owes you for spilling that drink on your favorite suit," laughed Heat.

            "Hell, that waste of sperm owes me for just existing," smirked Strike.  "When he got mad at me for cussin' him out, he threw a Polaroid at me like some bootleg Johnny Cage!"

            "Yeah, then you totally kicked his ass, talking about how the picture gave you a paper cut… and a rash!"

            The two laughed like hell.

            "It must be sad to know your very presence on earth is irrelevant," tittered Strike.

            "Damn, essa, that was just cruel!"

            "Who am I again?"

            "Yeah, yeah okay.  We gonna meet up with him?"

            "Yeah, let's meet him at the bistro on the East Side around noon.  That way we're still fairly close to the hotel, and there will be enough people there to keep me from going off on him and starting a shoot out."

            "I'm glad you plan ahead enough to use your temper as a factor," smiled Heat.  He started to send the email:

            Hiro:

            Very lucrative offer waiting for you at Piku-Piku Bistro, Noon.  Please have a little respect for yourself and show up.  Remember, you owe someone a HUGE favor.  If you choose to decline, there's no guarantee that tomorrow is yours.  Thanks.

            "Okay.  It's been sent.  What now?  It's almost 10AM."

            "I know a certain somebody who's here in Osaka on a 'business trip' as well," replied Strike.  "Another favor at my disposal…  Remember Pinky?"

            "That chick that the Kings had at your birthday party last year?"

            Strike shuddered.  He loved T & A as much as the next man, but he was EXTREMELY picky about what he wanted.  Hell, that's why he was single now.  And, unfortunately for Pinky, she didn't fit his description.  Why would he want to do a stripper, anyways?  He couldn't have cared less about her career choices, but her reputation was also quite a turn-off.  He started to remember it all…

**********

            The Kings were throwing him a blowout birthday bash at his favorite club.  All of his 'family' was there, with all kinds of booze and drugs for the guests.  (Strike has always been a weed man himself, and everyone suspects that he is without a liver because he is never seen without alcohol.)  The DJ was doing an excellent job of keeping people on the dance floor, and needless to say, the party was the shit…  Until, without warning, a huge cake was rolled in.  Strike was sitting down at the bar, and everyone gathered around him.  He was already intoxicated as it was; he was actually smiling in anticipation.

            After everyone damn near embarrassed him by singing "Happy Birthday", out of the cake popped a curvaceous dark-skinned female donning pink harem girl attire.  Even her hair was pink.  (Strike hated pink, but he let it slide.  It was obviously some kind of symbol of the stripper's femininity…) Her body was banging, he gave her that, even though he suspected a little silicone here or there…

            She danced around, undulating and belly dancing, clicking a hypnotic beat with her castanets.  All the guys were making catcalls, and Heat, who was sitting next to him, noticed Strike's blank expression.  

            _"What's wrong with you??"_ Heat hissed.  _"Look at this chick!  I thought you liked strippers!"_

            Strike sat wordlessly, and began to make it seem like he was enjoying himself.  He leaned back against the bar a little, grabbed his crotch, licked his lips, and gave the stripper a devilish grin that would make any female's draws melt off.  (Yes, draws.)

            Even the stripper's face turned a little red, what could be seen of it due to the veil over her nose and mouth, but she continued her dance, slowly beginning to undress herself.

            "Hey, can't the birthday boy get a lap dance?" requested Heat.  All the guys cheered in agreement.

            The stripper pulled back her veil, and revealed a thick set of pink-painted lips.  (Head-givers, if you ask Strike)  At that very moment, Strike was glad he was never without shades; his eyes may have given him away… because in her face he saw something he did NOT like…

            "Say, babe… what's your name?" he asked, without even trying to charm her.

            The stripper straddled his lap and smiled.  In his ear, she whispered, _"My name is Pinky.  Pinky Diamond…"_ She dismounted him and turned her back to him, inches away from his crotch, wiggling and jiggling to the loud tunes of Bass music now playing in the background.

            **_"TAKE IT OFF!  TAKE IT OFF!!!"_** chanted the bar full of horny gangbangers, holding up all kinds of money.

            "I'll let the birthday boy do that," Pinky smiled.

            Strike reached up and unhooked her scanty bra with expert precision, one-handed.  He pulled the straps from her shoulders and the bar went wild.  Pinky turned around to face Strike, shaking her assets in his face.

            Yup.  They were silicone all right.

            Pinky continued to dance around the bar area, collecting all the money being waved in her direction.  Strike put down his bottle of Olde English, and began to wonder exactly why she hadn't taken her large, puffy pants off yet.

            She let a few guys drink from her navel, and put on one hell of a table dance, but still the pants hadn't come off.  Pinky was either some kind of super tease, or maybe she had some kind of ass implants that the scars hadn't healed from yet.

            Strike, in his inebriated glory, wanted to see ass.  Plain and simple.  Heat sensed some kind of annoyance from his boy, but said nothing.  Hell, he was getting impatient, too.

            "And now, my special surprise for the birthday boy," purred Pinky, as she sauntered towards him.

            Strike bit his lower lip, slowly.  The devilish smile crept back onto his lips.  "I gotta stand up for this," he said, and approached her.  As soon as Pinky was about to finally pull her pants off…

            Strike immediately grabbed her throat and slung her to the ground, gripping tighter and straddling her to pin her down more.  He pulled out his shiny chrome Desert Eagle and placed the barrel directly in the middle of her forehead.

            Everybody gasped.  The music stopped, and mouths dropped wide open...

            "Damn, Strike what are you—?" tried the bartender.  He was shut up permanently when Strike fired a shot right through his forehead.

            Everybody backed up.  (That's why the smart ones stayed quiet.)

            "Who sent you?" demanded Strike.

            "What are you talking about?!?" tried Pinky.

            "Don't play _dumb_ with me, _bitch!_" snarled Strike.  He ripped her pants off with the hand that was on her neck, and pulled a Colt Python from the hidden holster on her right leg.  With one hand, he unlocked the clip and dismantled the gun.  He then picked up the clip and checked out the bullet on top…  It was a hollow tip.

            "You're a professional," growled Strike, putting the clip in his pocket and returning his hand to her throat.  "I ain't gonna ask you again.  Who the _fuck_ sent you?"

            Pinky almost… aw hell, she pissed on herself.  She looked over to the dead bartender, whose body slid to the floor behind the bar.  Needless to say, she was paralyzed with fear.

            "Nobody sent me…" she tried.

            Strike applied more pressure to her neck.  "Six million ways to die, bitch.  Choose one.  Better yet, two."

            Pinky couldn't breathe.  As she was running out of air, she sputtered, "Okay, okay!"

            Strike let her neck go.  "Talk.  _Fast._  My fucking finger is itching."

            "I really… really don't know who wanted me to kill you… Some guy called me a week ago and told me he wanted you dead, he wired the money to my account…  He didn't leave his name; he just said I'd get extra money after the job was done… Please… please don't kill me!" begged Pinky.  Tears were streaming down her face.  She had not expected this from him at all.

            Strike put his Desert Eagle away, and stood up over her.  "Stand the fuck up, bitch," he snarled.

            Slowly, the extremely shaken Pinky pulled herself up.  "Are you going to kill me?" she asked, and covered her nakedness with her arms.

            Strike shot her a wicked smile.  _"I own you now,"_ he said firmly.  "Don't try to run, don't try to hide; I will find you, and I will kill you.  Meet me at this club tomorrow night at 8; if you don't show up, you're as good as dead.  Now get the hell outta my sight before I forget why I'm sparing your life in the first place."

            Pinky grabbed her clothes and ran out without missing a beat.

            Strike turned around and faced his gang.  He gave them all a good once-over.  Heat moved away from the group and stood next to Strike, and he was obviously too uncomfortable for his own good.

            "Whoever is responsible for this… watch your back," declared Strike.  "For now, it's still my birthday.  Can I get some fuckin' music?!?"

            And the party started back like nothing happened.  One of the other bartenders cleaned away the mess of his co-worker, and started serving drinks without so much as a question.  He valued his life, point blank.

**********

            "I'm sorry about that shit again," said Heat.  It was like he knew the flashback was playing in Strike's head.

            "Damn, don't apologize.  I got the bastard who was responsible, one of my own fucking 'family' members…  I had suspected him since day one.  He outgrew his usefulness to me anyway," replied Strike with a slight sneer, and took another pull from his Newport.

            "You never collected your favor from her, did you?" smirked Heat knowingly.

            Strike made a face like 'WHAT?!' glanced over at Heat.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

            "Man, you know," smiled Heat, pursing his lips and giving Strike the People's Eyebrow.

            "Are you… are you asking me if I hit that?!" asked Strike, horror plastered all over his face.

            "Dude, you can tell me; hell, we all have needs..." Heat looked like he wanted to fall out in laughter.

            "HELL NAW, I DIDN'T HIT THAT!!  I can't believe you're insinuating that I placed any part of my anatomy in betwixt anything on her body!!! You couldn't pay me enough to… engage in any kind of… relations with _THAT_ ho!"

            "Why she gotta be a ho, essa?  Just 'cause she's a stripper?"

            "No, because she _IS_ a ho.  Just about every last one of the Kings has tapped that and passed her on to the next member like a plate of fried chicken at a banquet.  All strippers aren't hoes that I know of.  Not that I really care, either…"

            Heat got extremely quiet and kept typing away at his laptop.  He did his damage… he tried to hide his smile.  At this point, Strike didn't know what Heat was doing, but he wasn't terribly worried either.  Now he was going to have to meditate and think cleansing thoughts… (Ah, meditation… Lysol for the soul…)

            "Hey look, there's the building she's at," said Strike.

            Heat looked up at the skyscrapers and didn't know what from where.  "Why is she there?" he asked.

            "She had a sniping assignment.  Of course, I have to know about these things.  I wouldn't want us both to be after the same person; then I'd have to do away with her.  We wouldn't want that quite yet, would we?"

            Heat laughed.  "Can't argue with that!"

            "Let's go ahead and pay her a visit, shall we?"

            "Hell, I'm up for it…  Let's do this…"


	7. Phase Six: The Meeting with Pinky

            Strike and Heat slowly entered the building, but walked like they had business to tend to.  Heat had set foot in this building once before, so he knew his way around.  Strike followed his lead.  They caught the elevator to the top floor, and had to find a set of stairs to lead them to the roof. Conditions were windy as soon as they opened the door.

            Once they got there, they saw Pinky, laid stomach-down on a blanket with her sniper rifle firmly in place.  She was dressed in black jogging pants with a matching black hoodie, with black tennis shoes to match.  There were still traces of pink in the get up.  She was wearing what looked like a black wig.

            _"'Ey, Heat, just chill here for a second and keep my back, dude,"_ whispered Strike, pulling out his Glock.  Heat pulled out his special made chromed-out Magnum .357. 

            _"A'ight, homes,"_ he replied.  _"You think she's gonna be stupid enough to buck up at you?"_

            _"Not unless she wants to shake hands with some of her deceased kin-folk tonight,"_ retorted Strike, getting up to start approaching her.

            Strike had a great number of martial arts styles under his belt, over the years he'd been trained rigorously by the best.  He had no problem sneaking up on Pinky.  Since it was fairly cloudy outside, he didn't have to worry about her seeing his shadow.  When he got close up enough to view her setup clearly, he laughed to himself.  She actually had food and a can of Diet Pepsi resting by her side.  Guess she wasn't too professional after all…

            Heat, who was posted behind the walls built around the door leading to the roof, cocked his gun and steadied his grip around the handle, and rested his finger gently against the trigger.

            Strike cleared his throat loudly, and Pinky almost knocked her rifle off the roof.  She looked up in the direction it came from and saw Strike standing there, dressed in a long, black trench coat, a black button-down shirt with a dragon on each panel, black slacks, and black dress shoes.  He was also wearing a black Kangol hat backwards with a pair of black mirror-lens shades.

            "_You scared the SHIT out of me,"_ hissed Pinky, trying to pull herself together.  "What the fuck are you doing here?!"

            "You fuckin' _cussin'_ me???" sneered Strike.  "I'd think you'd be happy to see _me_ as opposed to looking down the barrel of a Desert Eagle."

            "I have a job to do here, in _case_ you haven't noticed," snapped Pinky.

            "You's a DUMB bitch to be talking all this trash in my fuckin' FACE," quipped Strike. "Unless you haven't noticed, I have a fully automatic weapon compared to that cumbersome rifle of yours."

            Pinky reached in her hoodie and pulled out the tiniest Glock Strike had ever laid eyes on, aiming it at him.

            Strike laughed almost hysterically, holding his stomach.  "What the fuck is THAT?!?  A .22???  What do you expect to do with that?  Even at a shot this close a range, the most it'll feel like is a mosquito bite…  I've been shot with more power than that and I _still_ laugh about it!"

            Pinky looked up at him with wide eyes.  "You really _are_ insane, aren't you?!"

            "Didn't get where I am by bullshittin', and cryin' over stupid shit.  I came here because I need a favor, but it would be so pleasant of you to get that tiny piece of shit the fuck out my face.  This ain't Men In Black, and you ain't Will Smith."

            "HELL NO!!" yelled Pinky.  "I've been planning this shit out for the last three months.  I have 27 million dollars riding on this one job!!"

            "27 mil?  That's it?!" scoffed Strike, with a mocking look on his face.  "I can wipe my _ass_ with that."  He looked off in the distance onto the street.  "Fuck that chump change for now.  Can you **_please_** get that piece of shit out of my face?!?!"

            The second it looked like Pinky was going to pull the trigger, a shot knocked the gun out of her hand.  She looked in the direction of the shot and saw Heat standing there, dressed in a maroon dress shirt decorated with a black flame pattern, a black blazer with flames on the pockets, maroon slacks and black dress shoes, with smoke rising from the barrel of his gun.

            Pinky growled in anger.  "What do you **_want_** from me?!" she spat angrily.

            "First of all, so you can quit your bitching," said Strike as he picked up her rifle.  Immediately he aimed and fired at a gentleman wearing glasses with thinning hair dressed in a business suit, and stepped away from the ledge.

            Pinky gazed down at the lifeless body through her binoculars.  In amazement she asked "How the hell did you know that's exactly who I was supposed to kill?!?!"

            Strike shot her a wicked smile.  "Who the fuck do you think set you up for this job?  That muthafuckah stole about 12 million dollars from me last year.  I thought I'd go ahead and test you out to see where your loyalty truly lies.  That's why I asked you last week if you were still going to go though with the job.  I could have easily offed him myself, but I didn't think he was worth it.  Then I realized, to the average person, 12 mil ain't worthless at all.  It's all about principle."

            "So… you set me up?" asked Pinky.

            "Partially.  I knew I'd be here for business after a while; I just had no idea that we'd cross paths this way."

            Pinky frowned at him angrily.  "So what about my money?!  I sat up here for 3 hours for nothing?!"

            Strike tossed a small suitcase at her.  "There's your fuckin' scratch, bitch.  Even though I knocked off a few mil.  I figured I'd rather off him myself, but you get paid for your effort."

            Pinky looked at him, and then started counting out roughly 17 million.  She didn't like the fact that Strike had basically pulled her chain and was making a sheer pawn out of her.  And it was amusing him.

            "You thought I was bullshittin' when I said _I own you_, bitch?!" cackled Strike, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.  "And ain't _shit_ you can do about it, but DEAL with it.  Now I have another job that's a SHIT LOAD more important than wiping another faceless business suit off this planet.  I need you to do what you do best."

            Pinky's face was red with anger.  "And what's that?"

            "_Awwww_… poor Pinky.  Don't be that way…" he cooed in a fake manner.  "I just need you to make a small infiltration for me.  You _will_ get paid for it, so you won't think I'm _completely_ pimping you.  This'll be a job that's right up your alley…"

            "Alright, fine.  Just tell me what you want," said Pinky, almost begrudgingly.

            Strike motioned for her to get up and started to inform her more about the job…

            When Strike and Heat got back in the car, they checked the clock.  They had just enough time to meet Hiro-kun at the Piku Piku Bistro, and eat while they waited for him.

            "Damn, Strike, I gotta give you mad props, ese," grinned Heat.  "You don't play!"

            "Shit, neither do you.  I never had a cat watch my back like you, bro.  I really appreciate how you shot that itty-bitty piece of metal out of her hand.  I just had to make sure she was on the level.  'Cuz if she ain't, she's of no use to me."

            "Remind me to stay on your good side, homes…" tittered Heat.

            "Shit, if you don't know what rubs me wrong by now, I'll at least let you off yourself."

            Heat shook his head.  "So what's she gonna be doing for you?"

            Strike only smiled as they passed the street where the man was found murdered.  It was cut off and spectators were scattered everywhere, with police trying to clear everything up.  He shot a bird in the dead man's direction.  "You'll see all this in due time.  See, I got a plan with 3 back-ups worked out as we speak.  We're going to see what's up with Hiro and maybe I'll let you in on some more…"

            "You sneaky mutha—alright.  This is getting so juicy now, I gotta know what's going on… but I'll just see what tricks you got up your sleeve."

            "Good… good," purred Strike as they continued on to the bistro…


	8. Phase Seven: The Meeting with Hiro-kun

            At the Piku-Piku Bistro, Heat and Strike sat at a booth nestled in the corner.  Strike had to fight the urge to nurse some drinks directly at the bar, but hell, he was still going to get his booze.  Heat ordered some mozzarella sticks and fried Portobello mushrooms for an appetizer, and a Mai Tai to drink.  Strike ordered the Spinach Dip with nachos, two chicken quesidillas, two orders of mozzarella sticks, and a tall margarita.  (Yes, this was his appetizer as well.)  He liked the bistro a lot because they served a great variety of food.

            Strike lit a Newport with his gun-shaped windproof lighter and casually took a drag.  He caught a glimpse of a female across the way staring at him… immediately an eyebrow went up.  _"'Ey… Heat,"_ he whispered, smirking, _"check this out."_

            Heat sipped on his water and focused his attention to the direction Strike had nodded his head.  He was wearing shades, too; he believed in Strike's sermons about keeping one's eyes covered.

            The tea-haired female giggled shyly and gingerly waved at Strike and Heat.  Across from her table was an empty seat, with a plate of food; obviously she wasn't there alone.

            Heat smiled.  Not a at the girl, but because he had an idea that Strike wanted to mess with her, big time.

            Strike eased back into his seat, resting his cigarette in the ashtray.  He turned his head directly to the girl's direction, grabbed his crotch, and licked his lips… _VERY S-L-O-W-L-Y…_

            The female's grin turned into a very blank, yet shocked expression… She went into some kind of spasms and then fainted, falling out of her chair in an undignified heap.

            The two laughed incredulously as a waitress immediately ran to tend to the young lady.  Seconds later, another female with black hair walked up to the same table and freaked immediately.  She looked around frantically as other people began to crowd around the table.  It just so happened that she looked in Heat's direction...

            Knowingly, Strike looked at Heat, and they both nodded.  Heat flashed the ebony-haired girl his killer smile, and puckered his lips sending her an air kiss.  Immediately, she began to shake uncontrollably and passed out next to her inert friend.  The people gathered around the girls gasped and had a fit.

            It was all Strike and Heat could do keep from bursting out in loud, outrageous laughter…

            "Damn, dude.  You know it's gonna take longer for us to get our food now," laughed Heat softly.

            "Tch," scoffed Strike, "it really doesn't matter; I have a strong feeling that Hiro has a shitty sense of time.  There's no telling _when_ he'll get here."

            The two watched in amusement as the managers called for paramedics and tried to revive the females.  Strike continued his leisurely smoke and Heat lit one for himself (using his finger of course, the show-off).

            "How much you wanna bet that they'll come to before the meds get here?" asked Heat.

            Strike looked firmly at all the bullshit going on at the other side of the restaurant, and smiled contemptuously.  "Shit…  I wanted to see them actually go to the hospital… damn, I'm at a crossroad…  But the meds always look so pissed when everything's fine by time they get to the scene.  I have a feeling you're right."  He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table.

            After about twenty-five minutes, the meds still hadn't arrived, but the females were finally revived.  Everyone in the restaurant was out of their seats and crowded around, (except you-know-who) and two minutes later the ambulance pulled in front of the bistro.  Of course, the med team was pissed, but took the females outside to do whatever testing they needed to.  The bistro's patrons were still milling around, trying to figure out just what the hell happened.

            "Think they'll say something?" asked Strike, not the least bit plagued by guilt.

            "I doubt it… if they remember what just happened, I think they'll be too embarrassed to admit the truth."

            Suddenly, the doors of the bistro opened and none other than the disco-fabulous Hiro-kun made a dramatic pose as they closed slowly behind him.  He was retro as ever in a tan leisure suit with a white and brown print button-down with large lapels, matching brown platform shoes, (yes, with a goldfish in each heel), and gold jewelry adorning his neck, fingers, and wrists.  Everyone's attention focused on him, and when Hiro noticed the great deal of females staring at him, he blushed profusely and slowly eased himself from his pose.

            Everyone went on about his or her business, like Hiro was completely irrelevant.

            Strike turned his head to Heat.  "Damn, that muthafuckah is _SO_ lame…" he said, faking a valley accent on the last two words.

            "Like, _Oh…my…God… REAL-ly!_" scoffed Heat, mimicking the same accent and staring into his glass of water, trying not to laugh.

            As Hiro walked further into the bistro, past a large group of females, his posture spoke volumes about how he wished he could shrink and run away.  He was too distracted with trying to be as small as possible instead of looking for his awaiting party.

            "What's the deal with this cat??" asked Heat in disbelief.  "As soon as some chicks started staring at him, it's like he just… put his tail in between his legs…"

            "Damn, is he _pussy_ or what?" joked Strike.  "Shit.  I thought he was supposed to be the 'Natural Playboy' or something…"

            "If it's like that, then he's the 'Natural _Gay_-boy'," chuckled Heat.

            As Hiro finally made it past the females, he regained his composure and looked around.  In the booth, he saw a hand wave him down.  He clutched the handle of his small briefcase a little tighter as he realized the hand belonged to none other than Strike.  Hiro gulped… he hadn't forgotten his last encounter with Strike.  His flesh almost crawled at the thought of it…  How the hell did Strike know he was in Osaka??  He gulped again and slowly approached the booth…

            Strike slid over and patted the seat.  "Yeeeeah, stop actin' like a _punk_.  Come on and have a seat."  Heat laughed at the 'punk' statement.

            Slowly, Hiro sat down, and it was beyond obvious that he was uncomfortable."

            "What's wrong, homes?" asked Heat, cocking up an eyebrow, knowingly.  He took another drag off his cigarette.

            Hiro looked at the two with an expression of nervousness.  "Hello," he said in Japanese.

            Strike looked at Heat, and dragged on his cigarette with a slightly pissed expression.  _"Nani???  Sumimasen?"_

            "You don't speak English anymore, ese?" said Heat, with the same facial expression Strike had.

            Hiro looked down nervously.  The last time he'd seen these two, the music was extremely loud, but Strike would be damned if he wasn't an excellent lip-reader.  No one had to hear what he'd said, but the black-haired man knew when someone was talking shit to him…

            "No… not really…" replied Hiro-kun nervously.

            "… Are you bullshittin' me?" asked Strike.  His temper was short as it was… it didn't take much to light his fuse.  The only person who rivaled if not outdid his temper was Heat.

            "NO, NO!" answered Hiro, waving his hands like, 'please don't hurt me'.

            "So what's your _glitch?"_ asked Heat.

            Hiro was sweating profusely.  Damn, talk about third degree…

            "You spoke English when you were mouthing off at that club about kicking my ass," growled Strike.  He was obviously growing more pissed by the moment.

            "Please… I just feel more comfortable speaking Japanese… I mean, after all, I DO live in Japan," said Hiro carefully.

            "I spent a good chunk of my life in Japan, and I'm country as hell," retorted Strike.

            "Same here," agreed Heat, sipping his water like a southern mama sitting on her porch.

            "Please, don't be angry with me… I just want to be comfortable…"

            "Fuck you _and_ your comfort!  I think you're trying to fuck with me!" snarled Strike in English.  He was seconds away from pulling one of his guns out, but remembered his initial plan.  That's why they were in the bistro in the first place…

            Hiro stared at Strike quietly, as if he was trying not to piss his pants.  "Please…" he tried again.

            Strike pulled down his shades, and revealed to Hiro the deadliest pair of slanted jade-green eyes he'd ever seen in his life.  **_"Don't think you won't get your muthafuckin' neck snapped fuckin' with me bitch,"_** hissed Strike, his words as venomous as any snake's poison.  "You can talk English to threaten me, but you can't act civil in a decent conversation.  That makes me think you're wearing a wire or something.  You're not that fucking stupid, _are you?"_  Immediately, he returned his shades to their previous position, but Hiro could still feel Strike's eyes burning through him.

            Hiro shook his head, his eyes wide with absolute fear.  He quickly glanced at Heat like 'please help me', to which Heat responded by creating a flame in his right palm.  "Hey homes… I'm no mediator… I feel just as OFFENDED as he does."

            Strike balled his fists tightly, cracking his knuckles.  "If you ain't wired, you'll speak plain fuckin' English.  If you keep playing this game with me, I'll make you strip down to your tire-streaked boxer-draws up in this bitch.  I _gives_ not a fuck about a restaurant.  _DO NOT FUCK WITH ME."_  His nostrils were flaring.  Even Heat was turning red; his suspicions were aroused as well.

            Hiro gulped.

            "If any of your piss touches my clothes, you're as good as dead," snarled Strike.

            "Okei, okei," said Hiro.  "I'm sorrei!"

            **_"WHAT?!"_** said Strike and Heat simultaneously.

            Hiro hung his head.  "I dun't speek gud Engleesh," he wailed.

            "You don't **what?"** asked Heat, making a face like, 'what'd you just say?'

            Strike's head tilted to one side in disbelief, his facial expression was priceless.

            "Meh Engleesh is vehry bad… *sniffle*"

            The other two men turned red as their cheeks puffed up, trying to hold in their laughter.  Suddenly they burst out and started slapping their knees and holding their stomachs.  Heat literally fell to the floor, rolling around and wiping tears from his eyes.  Strike was all over the table.

            Hiro sat there with sweatdrops overhead, turning red as a beet.  Everyone in the bistro looked in the direction of the booth to see what was going on.

            The two were chuckling, guffawing, and snorting, even.  An Asian manager walked over to see what the hell the problem was.

            "Excuse me, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you fellows to leave if you can't monitor the noise," tried the manager.

            Strike tried to gain composure.  When he caught his breath, he gasped, "First of all, fuck you… second of all… have you heard this man talk???"  He pointed at Hiro.

            The manager looked amazed.  _"What?"_

            "Talk bitch!" spat Strike, elbowing Hiro-kun.

            "Pleese… stop piikeeng at mee!" howled Hiro.

            The manager stared at the leisure-suited man, disbelief etched onto his face.  "What'd you say?"

            "Stop piikeeng at mee!!!"  Hiro looked like he was near tears.

            The manager looked like someone just knocked the wind out of him, and doubled over in laughter—as much as he tried to fight it.

            Hiro sat there like he wanted to shrink again, with three men around him almost dying in laughter.

            In between hearty laughs, the manager waved his hand like 'fuck it', and said, "I am… so sorry… for the interference, gentlemen… I haven't laughed… like this in… **_MONTHS!!!"_**  He walked away from the table, wiping tears from his eyes.

            "Damn it to hell!!!" roared Strike, slapping Hiro on the back (and no doubt leaving a hand print).  "You'd better be glad… you made me laugh, muthafuckah!!  Just… keep your pissy ass… away… from my threads… and you'll get another cool point…"  He was still laughing.  "'Stop piikeeng at meee!'" he mocked in a high-pitched, squeaky tone.

            Heat was still rolling on the floor; he was of no use to anyone…

            Ten minutes later, the two finally calmed down, and Strike tried to remember why he'd even asked Hiro to come there in the first place.

            "Do you speak another language?" asked Heat.  His eyes were almost as red as his shirt.

            "Italiano…" squeaked Hiro, like he just lost his voice.

            "Hell, we'll speak in Italian, then, 'cuz at this rate we won't get shit done!" tittered Strike.  Heat was fluent in ten different languages, and Strike had a good eight under his belt as well.

            Hiro almost looked relieved, but he was still embarrassed as shit.  He looked around as the rest of the patrons returned to their food and conversation.

            The waitress brought their drinks and took Hiro's drink order.  (Hiro made sure to speak Japanese, too).

            "Alright, damn it.  Let's get down to business.  You're a hacker right?" asked Strike in Italian.

            "Yes," replied Hiro, a little more comfortable speaking his native tongue.

            "Good.  I have a deal for you.  You're gonna do a job for me.  Don't worry, you'll get paid richly for your time, providing you do this right," said Strike, flashing a handful of yen.  "And if _American_ currency is your flavor…" he reached in his trench coat lining pocket and pulled out fat wad of hundred dollar bills, "I got you covered there, too."

            Hero's eyes turned into dollar signs.  He opened his briefcase and pulled out his laptop immediately.

            Strike popped him on the back of the head.  "Don't get online here!"

            "Why not?" asked Hiro.

            "Idiot, don't you know that will leave a trail?" hissed Heat.  "I don't care what kind of set-up you have… _SOMEBODY_ can trace you."

            Hiro shook his head.  "Not with _my_ setup.  I programmed this myself.  Even I can't hack into my own system from elsewhere."

            Heat looked at him, turning red.  His eye jumped, like he had a nervous tic.  _"What??"_ he said in quiet anger.  He got up to look at Hero's laptop, and observed as much as he could from the programs on the desktop.

            _"Uh-oh…"_ thought Strike.  _"The tech-rats unite…"_  Out loud he said, "Yeah, you two do that.  I just want my food, and as soon as we finish eating, I'll tell you the more intricate details of the plan.  Just make sure, for my peace of mind, that you do your hacking elsewhere."

            Hiro nodded, as Heat was stuck on his comp screen.

            Strike lit another cigarette and smiled, easing himself as far away from Hiro in the booth  Things were coming together nicer than he expected…

Check out a few illustrations at my site; www.angelfire.com/grrl/outlinez_bagz


	9. Phase Eight: The $#!T hits the fan...

            _"Ohhhh…."_

Shorty groaned as she slowly woke up.  She uttered a hiccup and giggled slightly, obviously drunk from the 'Nighty-Night' cocktail.  Since she was still blindfolded, she couldn't see anything…  she was almost a little scared.  The only reasons she wasn't totally freaked had to do with her drunken state, as well as an unusual light-headed feeling. The air was heavy with the smell of chronic and greasy burgers.

            _"Hello…?"_ she asked, her voice quivering with nervousness.  "Mr. Strike?  Mr. Heat??…"

            No answer.  She didn't detect any fresh smoke.  _"Columbo?"_

            Columbo was inert, still wrapped up with twist ties.  The alcohol still had him faded.

            Shorty started to feel really sad.  "Aw, man…" she mumbled.  "This game isn't fun anymore…  I'm so hungry…"

She moved her hands around.  Her legs and feet were asleep, all her appendages felt like they weighed a ton.  She couldn't believe how hungry she was!  It was like she hadn't eaten for a week.  Shorty began to shuffle around in her seat, and the hamburgers smelled SO good!  She just had to have one.  The more she shuffled, the more the chair she was in started to move.  FOOD!  She kept squirming, until the seat fell over with an undignified thud.

            **_"OWW!"_** she shrieked.  She'd landed on her right side.  _Fooooood_.  She carefully eased her hands around until she found the knot in the rope binding her wrists, and worked patiently until she'd untied herself.  Food.  She took off her blindfold…  It was so dark in the room, and the only source of light was coming from under the hotel door.  Oh no… she was still a little afraid of the dark.  Food.  She untied her ankles.  When she stood up, her legs were wobbly like jell-o.

            FOOD.

            For some strange reason, she'd forgotten all about her mouse.  She was hungry.

            Like a newborn calf, Shorty stumbled about nervously until she found something that felt like a lamp.  When she turned it on, she found that she was in a hotel room.  The beds were still made, and on nearby table was stack of hamburgers still in their wrappings.  Her mouth watered.  FOOD!  As best as she could, she made a wobbly run for the table and greedily snarfed down on the cold goodies.

            It never occurred to her that she'd caught a contact buzz.  That's why she was able to concentrate on the ropes, and why she was so all-fired hungry!  She didn't even feel the need to warm the food up!

            Just as she finished with her fourth hamburger, her stomach started feeling horrible!  _"Ohhhh… no…"_ she muttered as she grabbed her tummy.  She could feel… it… bubble…ing… 

            As Shorty made a mad dash for the bathroom, she tripped and fell dead on her face.  That made the bubbling even worse!  She had to make it… just few… more… feet… she got up barely and crawled with all her might to the bathroom.  When she made it, she grunted and groaned as she remembered that she had on OVERALLS, of all things!!  Sloppily, she pulled her arms out and finally got free of them, and plopped herself on the toilet.

            She did her dirty business… and heaved a great sigh of relief!

            Twenty minutes and four courtesy flushes later, she freshened herself and climbed of the throne, to run back to the food.  Two hamburgers later, her stomach started the awful bubbling again, but this time she had to hurl.  She ran back to the bathroom to take care of that.

            Ten minutes later, she was slumped over the very smelly commode, feeling awful.  Then she remembered… Columbo!

            Upon stumbling out of the bathroom, still feeling extremely light-headed.  She looked around until she found him on the counter, and untied him.

            "*hic*  Columbo…?" she asked, gently squeezing him to awaken him.  No response.  Shorty put him close to her ear to see if he was still breathing.  Affirmative.  She squeezed him one more time, and he released a horrid-sounding burp that reeked of alcohol.  At least he was still alive.

            Shorty dropped to her knees, still cradling her mouse.  She was so lonely… she wished her daddy were there.  That was it!  She'd call her dad so he would come get her!  She went to the phone, still gently holding Columbo, and when she picked it up, she didn't hear so much as a dial tone.  She looked extremely discouraged.

            "Ohhh…" she whimpered.  "What am I going to do now?"  She looked around until she saw her book bag sitting on one of the chairs.  Her cell phone!  She placed Columbo on the bed and went to open the bag, to pull out her cute Nokia cell phone with a picture of her beloved mouse on the face.  It was cut off.  She turned it on, and as soon as she dialed her dad's number…

            Strike unlocked the door, slightly pissed because he had to exhibit Road Rage on some idiot who'd cut him off in traffic.  As soon as he and Heat stepped in, they found Shorty on the phone, waiting patiently for it to start ringing.

            Shorty gasped happily.  "You're back!" she smiled.

            "Heat, hurry up and--" Strike started.

            "Already on it," Heat said as he ran to snatch the phone.  "Hello?!  _Hello?_  Punkin'?!?" he heard as he put it to his ear.  He quickly terminated the call.  "SHIT!  That was Kinoshima!" he hissed to Strike.

            Strike slammed the door.  **_"FUCK!!"_** he yelled, so loudly that his voice shook the entire room.  Shorty _and_ Heat jumped.  Heat could admit that it wasn't often that Strike would raise his voice.  When he did… Hell was on the horizon.

            _"What the fuck were you doing?!"_ demanded Strike of Shorty.  She cowered and pissed her pants.  "And why the **FUCK** does it _reek_ in here so fucking bad?!?  **_FUCK!!_**  It smells like a fucking _shit bomb_ in this muthafuckah!!"  He stood there at his full height, angrier than he could remember, and looked down at the child.  "How the hell did you get loose?!"

            "Dude, calm the hell down, man!" said Heat as calmly as he could.  He knew Strike to lose his temper no more than five times since he met him… and _oooooh_, was it ugly!  They couldn't afford that now.

            Strike was fuming.  The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.  He looked at Heat angrily, but knew that he was right.  _"Talk to this little heifer and see what her muthafuckin' glitch is,"_ he hissed as he walked out and slammed the door behind him.

            Heat sighed his relief.  Shorty was paralyzed with fear.  Strike was so… tall… and big and scary!

            "Shorty, what happened here?" asked Heat.

            A few tears slowly streamed down her cheek.  "I wasn't feeling well… I had to… y'know… and I had to hurl…"

            _"So that explains the stench,"_ muttered Heat.  "Why were you on the phone?"

            "'Cuz I miss my daddy," she said quietly.  "…You guys left me."

            Heat looked at her carefully.  For some strange reason, he sensed that something else was amiss, but pushed it to the back of his brain.  "We didn't leave you… we just had some things to take care of.  …You don't like being by yourself, is that what it is?"

            "No… I'm alone all the time, except for Columbo."

            Heat put the cell phone in his pocket after making sure it was completely off.  "Look, I'm going to go out and talk to Strike for a minute," he told the little one.  "Don't call anybody, your dad knows you're okay.  Just start getting yourself together, and I'll be right back.  Promise me you won't touch shit else."

            "I promise," sniffled Shorty.

            When Heat went outside, he saw Strike taking his anger out on somebody's car, a 1996 Nissan Maxima.  Strike was punching and kicking it, leaving dents that NO ONE could fix.  He punched in the hood with such force that liquids started gushing from it.  Then he kicked the windshield, shattering it completely.  After a few more attacks to the body of the car, the owner came running out of his room wrapped in a towel.

            **_"YOU IDIOT!!  WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY CAR?!?!?"_** he screamed, as his girlfriend hurried to cover herself with a towel while she stood at the door.

            Strike looked at the man, and a gust of wind blew his trench coat and hair, almost like he was in a movie.  _"What did you say?"_ he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

            The dude was hysterical, walking around his car and crying like a little girl.  "Man, I just got this car two days ago!!  My baby!!"  He was barely holding on to his towel, his crack was showing.

            Heat held his finger up to his lips and his cheeks puffed up like he was about to spew chunks.  However, he didn't want to miss _this_ show.

            The towel man went up to Strike screaming and howling, cursing and whining.  "You _fucking_ idiot!!  You're gonna pay for all this shit!!  You're gonna buy me a brand new car, you asshole!!!  I'm gonna sue you so hard you're gonna--"

            The man was cut off when Strike walked over to the side of the car, grabbed the undersides with both hands, lifted with his knees, and flipped the vehicle over without showing a sign of strain.  Then he held both fists clasped together over his head, and came down on the wreckage, nearly splitting it in half.

            The girlfriend slammed the door and locked herself inside.

            Heat's jaw dropped.

            The man backed up and dropped to his knees, and crawled away, almost losing his towel, blubbering like a baby.

            Strike pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag.  He looked down at the half-naked creature crying at his feet.  "I'm gonna _what_, now?"

            "…Nothing…_n-n-n-n… n-nothing_, man, just forget about it!!"  He pulled himself up and ran back to his door, banging for his girlfriend to let him back in.

            "Let me in!!  Let me in, you stupid bitch!!" the man shrieked.

            Strike looked back and saw Heat observing the scene with a huge sweatdrop overhead.  Then he turned his attention back to towel boy and walked over to him.  Still smoking away, he cleared his throat.

            The man looked up at him and pissed himself.

            "GOD, that is SO unsanitary…" muttered Strike in complete disdain.  "Look, I just wanted to let you know that uh… if you go telling any _authorities_ about this…" Strike held up a small piece of metal, "I have your Vehicle Identification Number, and took the liberty of memorizing your license plate number, which can be used to find your address, or whoever helped you by co-signing for that garbage heap.  Unless you want to end up like your car, I suggest you keep your mouth **shut**.  And for the love of God, go wash your pissy ass!"  Strike turned on his heels and walked away, tossing his cigarette butt at the car.

            The car instantly burst into flames, and towel boy howled like a rape victim in a prison shower.

            Don't hate me y'all.  The next chapter should be up shortly.

            Special thanks go to RAVEgirl and Evui for their support. =)

            Please visit my site at http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/outlinez_bagz 


	10. Phase Nine: The Getaway!

            Strike walked away from the burning wreckage, almost in slow motion.  He stood in front of a bewildered Heat, who was shaking his head in disbelief.

            "Are you done, hermano?" asked Heat, very carefully.

            Strike turned around slowly to look at his handiwork, and casually lit another cigarette.  He then turned back to his friend, and said tersely "What was her damn problem?"

            "She was freaked out because she was alone," replied the Fireboy.

            Strike heaved an exasperated sigh.  Damn it, why hadn't he destroyed that fucking cell phone??  He'd thought about it, but something told him to save it.  Kinoshima knew that people would be after his little girl… so perhaps there could have been some kind of tracking device in the phone.

            "Are you mad at the kid or are you mad at yourself?" Heat asked.  It was freaky how he knew what Strike was thinking sometimes.

            "A little bit of both," Strike admitted.  "Shit, there's too much riding on this whole operation for me to fuck up on some miniscule details.  How in the fuckin hell did she free herself?"

            "I don't know, but she's still a little blitzed from the cocktail, and I suspect she caught a buzz.  Maybe we should have given her a little more…"

            "That shit don't matter now," uttered Strike.  He looked back at the blazing wreckage.  "Is she getting ready?  'Cuz now we gotta blow this joint.  Get on your cell and see if you can find another place for us to lay our heads for the night, and then make a call and see if you can trade that vehicle in at the rental place for another one.  Now we have another bit of business to handle."

            Heat pulled out his phone. "Cool," he said.  "Look, not that I'm going soft or anything, but go easy on that kid."

            Strike threw his cigarette down and headed for the door.  When Heat had made the comment, he turned his head in his direction with a facial expression of 'Damn, could I care less right now'.  Then he went into the room.

            Shorty had changed back into her school uniform; it was all she had clean.  She almost messed herself again when she saw Strike.

            "Kid, you got your shit together?" he asked.

            Shorty nodded.

            "Answer this; did you talk to your pops or what?"

            Shorty shook her head.

            Strike turned up his nose.  "You were talking a shitload more earlier.  Fuck it, get your damned rat and your other shit and let's bounce.  You are treading on very thin ice, so I suggest you behave yourself from here on out.  Another stunt like that and I'll make sure your dad gives birth to a duck.  Do I make myself clear?"

            "Yes…" replied Shorty, like she wanted to shrink into a little ball and bounce away.

            Strike hurriedly walked around the room and collected his and Heat's items, flushed a few bags down the toilet, and gave it a double check.  Everything was working out okay to this point; now he felt like he was going to have to tiptoe across the edge of a razor blade.

            He looked at Shorty, who was really starting to remind him of Sherry from Resident Evil 2.  Slow, and sitting down every two seconds.

            "You ready?" he asked impatiently.

            Shorty put her backpack on and carefully cradled her mouse.  "Yeah," she said.

            "… Get the fuck out.  Go, move, to the damn car," Strike barked.

            The little one ran as fast as her legs would carry her out of the door.

            Strike growled angrily.  First, he lost his temper, and now he was just plain pissed.  He shook his head and left the room, wiping the doorknob upon his exit.  The main thing that clicked in his mind was that Shorty's cell phone frequency hadn't been scrambled yet.  The second she cut it on, her signal was probably loud and clear.  Kinoshima may have been afraid to call the authorities, but Strike had no doubt that he had recruited a few others to find his daughter.

            As soon as the trio was in the car (Strike was driving), fire truck sirens blared nearby.  That meant pigs were on the way, too.  Good thing that he knew a lot of back streets, most of which he observed from Heat.

            The Fireboy was making cell phone calls, and Shorty sat quietly in the back seat, still cradling Columbo.  Why had Strike been so mean to her?  She didn't do anything wrong, or so she thought…  Her family's psychologist always made mention to her parents about Shorty's low self-esteem… right now, she felt extra-low.

            As Strike was speeding away from the scene, he caught a glimpse of Swine Car in the rear view.  The lights began to flash.

            "Heat, we've got company.  Should we handle this your way or my way?"

            Heat disconnected his call, and looked at Shorty.  "Can't do it my way with her in the car.  Your way, ese."

            "Take the wheel," replied Strike.  Heat grabbed the steering wheel with one hand, and put his foot on the accelerator.  They'd done this maneuver so many times before that it was almost second nature.  It wasn't that Strike didn't know how to handle this situation, but he knew these things were best suited for his boy.

            Once they got readjusted in their seats, Strike pulled out a blunt and lit it.  "Did you handle the license plate already?" he asked.

            Heat nodded, with a far away determined look, as if though he were driving on the track.  He was getting in his zone.

            The police officer made demands over the speaker, and Heat started to slow down… slightly… slightly…  Once the police car slowed, Heat gunned it, peeling rubber.

            Shorty screamed… what on earth was happening?!

            "Keep it _shut_, little girl!  Get on the muthafuckin floor unless you want to fly out this bitch by mistake!!" snapped Strike, passing the blunt to Heat.  Shorty obeyed.  Casually, Strike pulled out his Desert Eagle and removed the clip.  He looked in his left pant leg and pulled out another clip, filled with bullets he'd made himself for situations like this.

            The cop was trying to keep up.  Heat was making hairpin turns, swerving like a maniac, and still maintaining complete control of the car.  As he smoked, his nerves were calmed more and determination blazed in his already fiery eyes.

            The police officer kept hollering over his speaker, and finally decided this driver was too much of challenge for him.  There was no plate on this vehicle, no signs of stopping… he blared his siren and started to call for back up.

            Strike nodded to Heat, and the racer steadied the control of the car.  Usually, the nod meant 'no unexpected turns'.

            Since Strike had just let the top down on the car (hell, it was a rental… not like he'd do it in his own car, whatever!), he took a precise aim for the police car's dashboard.  When he fired the shot, the entire control panel went haywire.  The sheer power of the gun was incredible; the cock back alone could break one's arm if they weren't prepared for it.  As the bullet exploded from the chamber, a large blast of fire accompanied it.

            **_"SHIMATTA!!!"_** the officer screamed, and inadvertently swerved out of control, only to quickly get himself together.  How in the hell did a bullet get through?!?  The siren was still blaring and he threw the radio down.

            Heat immediately made a sharp turn down a desolate alley.  The cop was on them still!

            _"Persistent little piece of bacon,"_ snarled Strike.  Under any other circumstances, he would have aimed for the engine, but he'd already made big enough of a scene at the hotel.  Something told him to avoid another one, but this cop wasn't giving them that option.

            Heat continued to drive down back streets and alleys to avoid any more cops.  This one was challenging.  He almost liked the rush…

            …Until the cop started firing back.

            **_"SHIT!!"_** Strike and Heat yelled, ducking down.  _"LOCO CABRON!!!"_ continued Heat.

            Shorty was on the floor, cowering and covering her head.

            The cop was firing recklessly, and Heat made crazy zigzags to keep the car from getting too much damage.

            Strike counted the shots.  The cop was using an automatic weapon, probably a Smith and Wesson from the sounds of it, which wasn't a standard police-issued gun in that area.  After he counted the 15th round, he immediately rose up and fired two clean shots; one through the passenger side of the windshield, and the other to the top mounted sirens and lights.

            Once again, the car swerved, and the entire windshield was destroyed.

            Adrenaline was crazy- the cop still managed to say on them.

            "Strike, what are you doing?" hissed Heat.

            "Trying not to blow the damned car up…" growled Strike.  "Fuck it!"

            "Wait 'til I make this turn, homes," said Heat.  "This coming up is extremely secluded!"

            "Got it."

            Heat made THE most wicked turn of his life, handling the steering wheel like it wasn't nothing!  His eyes were narrowed as the speedometer slowly climbed back up to 50, 60, 70, and shot to 90MPH.  His pulse was racing like crazy!

            During the turn, the cop couldn't reload his gun.  Just who the hell was he chasing, anyway?!?  A racecar driver or something?!  When he looked up, he saw the man in the passenger side aiming… right at him!  He was struggling to see, as 90 mile plus winds were whipping in his face, debris from the outside and dust bombarding his vision.  He was a sitting duck.  It was either keep getting his car destroyed by these insanely powerful bullets, or bail out.  He chose the latter.  The cop threw himself out of the vehicle, and it continued to lumber out of control.

            Strike saw the cop jump out.  He made a final shot to the engine, and the car went up in a blaze of glory.

            The two heaved a slight sigh of relief, but they weren't out of the frying pan yet.  Now, they had to get rid of the damned rental car, and not the legal way, either…

Please be kind… read and review!  ^_^


	11. Phase Ten: Old Deals to New Wheels

            Heat continued making his way through the back streets.  Strike took the clip out of his Desert Eagle and replaced it with the original.  After Heat made a few more turns, he decided that the coast was clear, and looked back to check on Shorty.  She was quiet and balled up on the seat.

            "So what do we do now, homes?" asked Heat, coming back to non-racer mode, and handing Strike the blunt.

            Strike put his gun back in its holster and took the fatty.  "Two things," he said in a low voice so the little one wouldn't hear.  "Drop the cell phone at an undisclosed location, and dump this car at the quarry on the East side of town.  But first, drop me off about a block away from a car rental place.  I'll pick up another ride and meet you at the quarry.  From there, we get another hotel room, and meet up with Hiro later."

            Heat nodded.  "That's a bet."

            Once Heat stopped near the rental car place, Strike told him to keep Shorty with him, and to put the top back up.

            "This should only take me about 30 minutes, getting the car," assured Strike.  I'm going to be a little careful about making my way to the quarry, so take your time.  There's a small building behind some lumber stacks."  He handed Heat a small key.  "If need be, go there to chill and I'll come to the window to let you know I'm there."

            "Cool.  Wanna take our suitcases and stuff to make it look more legitimate?" asked Heat.

            "Yeah, pop the trunk." Strike walked to the back of the car and got their things.  "See you in about 45, bro." He lit another cigarette and was on his way to Alaho Rent-A-Car*.                                                                                   *Inside joke*

            When Strike walked in, he saw a line that almost seemed to last for eternity.  There had to be a way make this quicker.  There were five Rental agents behind the counter, working like they didn't even want to be there.  Almost everyone standing in line was wearing suits.  That gave Strike an idea…

            He reached into Heat's bag and pulled out an object that resembled a cell phone.  He put a piece in his ear, and started dialing away at the keypad.

            Suddenly, everyone's cell phone started ringing!  Confused, they all looked around, almost embarrassed, but wondering what was wrong.  Since there was a policy about no cell phones inside, everyone went outside for fear of it being important business calls.

            Strike chuckled to himself.  Sometimes it was so good to ignore the rules and bend them for his own needs.  He advanced to the front of the line.  'Suckers,' he thought.

            "Heat-san, where are we going?" asked Shorty timidly from the back seat.

            Heat looked at her through the rearview mirror.  "We're just taking a little road trip; try to relax and enjoy the scenery."

            Shorty sat back in her seat.  Columbo was still knocked out.  She looked out the window and saw the pretty trees pass by.  It looked like they were riding down the countryside; the view was beautiful.  It reminded her of the days when she was a tad younger, before her mama signed another contract with Lover Girl cosmetics and FredeRique's del Hollywood; before her papa decided to give up the DJ gig and flipped the script totally to become a Diplomat to Japan.  They used to go to amusement parks, visit her Grandmamma in the country…  And the last birthday party they threw for her when she turned 10…  Shorty curled up on the back seat, still lightheaded, and slowly drifted back to sleep.

            Heat noticed how quiet it was and looked back into the rearview mirror.  Good… she was sleeping now.  That would make the trip a little bit easier.

            After a few more miles, he stopped at a nearby wooded area.  He double checked to make sure Shorty was still snoozing, and got out of the car.  Heat then pulled off his coat and walked carefully though the maze of trees.  Surprisingly, he actually knew this area like the back of his hand…  That was an old stomping ground where he used to meditate and he and Strike used to spar there in the old days.  Very isolated and often overlooked.

            Heat's walk finally found him at an especially appealing pond.  This was one of the most gorgeous and serene places he'd seen in Osaka.  He smiled at the memories, and pulled out Shorty's cell phone...  Carefully, he placed it on the ground, and pulled a pair of gloves out of his back pocket, accompanied with a handkerchief.  Putting the gloves on, he picked the phone back up and wiped it off thoroughly.  After he turned the phone back on, he placed it down again, and trotted off.

            'Nice diversion,' he thought, 'miles away from anything.'  When he got back in the car, he drove off, carefully as not to leave any tire tracks.  Now, it was off to the quarry…

            Irritated, Strike stood impatiently at the counter waiting for one of the rude-ass rental agents to assist him.  He'd been standing there for nearly 10 minutes.  Finally, he decided to make his presence known.

            "Excuse me," he said loudly.

            One of the rental agents looked at him, and then turned back to her newspaper like Strike didn't exist.  She was a dark-skinned older lady with short orange dreads.  She was a me-e-e-e-e-an looking chick, with a face you'd only want to see in the dark.  Her nametag was old and almost tattered looking, and she wore a uniform unlike the other ones.  She must have been a manager or something.

            "Excuse me, _ma'am_, can I _please_ get some assistance over here?" asked Strike in an authoritative manner.

            "One of the rental agents will be with you shortly," she responded in a nasty tone, not even bothering to look at him again.

            Strike's eye jumped.  He knew how to handle heifers like this.  He unceremoniously reached into his pocket and pulled out fat roll of money, flashing it in her general direction.

            The woman saw something big and green from the corner of her eye.  Involuntarily, her head turned in its direction.  She saw Strike waving the money, flashing his killer smile to sweeten the pot.  _DAMN_ was he **_HOT!!!!_**

            "I'm sorry, sir," she drawled, getting up to walk to the monitor closest to him.  "Have you been standing here very long?" she asked in a flirtatious manner.

            "Long enough for my hair to grow out two more inches," he quipped, every word laced with sarcasm.  He adjusted his hat and gently tucked his money back to where it belonged.

            "Well, my apologies… what can I do to help you today?  I'd bet a tall man such as yourself would be interested in renting an SUV today, right?" she cooed.

            Now this bitch was all up on his nuts.  He could see the faded word 'Aubrey' on her nametag.

            "Nah, I need a convertible," he replied, still smiling.  It was times like this where he was glad he always wore shades.

            Aubrey's eyes lit up like she belonged on a Christmas tree… (On the back of one, anyway…)  "Well we have all kinds on the lot today," she responded sweetly, typing away at her computer.  "We have Spyders, Sebrings, and Mustangs available…"

            'We just had a damn Mustang…' thought Strike.  "Let me have a Sebring," he said aloud, "black if you have one, and I'll be needing it for a week."

            "Certainly," replied Aubrey.  "All I need to get started is your credit card and driver's license."

            "No problem," said Strike, handing her the items she requested.  Nothing that even remotely resembled his real name was on these things.  Ah, how nice it was to have pawns working to hook him up at the credit card company and the DMV…

            "Well, _Mr. Antonio Hahn_," she said to him as she started typing away.  "It's _really_ nice to be doing business with you."

            Strike only smiled… but his eyes read something totally different.

            Within 10 minutes, Aubrey was done processing his order.  After Strike make his 'signatures', he invited the woman to come to the car with him.  Unabashedly, Aubrey was more than happy to accompany him.

            As they walked through the lot down the rows of cars, Strike was still laying the charm on extra thick… (This was a mandatory measure… just to psych himself up… he was going to be **so** sick later…)  When they got to the car, he opened the trunk with the key that was hanging in the lock, and put in all his bags.

            Aubrey stood nearby, standing girlishly and casually twisting one of her dreads around her finger.

            "So," said Strike in his most luscious voice, "do you… live around here?"  He got in the car, started it, and let the top down.

            "Well, yeah I _do_, actually," she replied, giggling.

            Strike's flesh crawled.

            "Would you like to come by and see… me sometime?" Aubrey asked, giving him a flirty look.  She grinned from ear to ear.  She had a gap in her teeth bigger than the whole damn Grand Canyon.

            Strike's flesh crawled some more.  His tattoos started to itch.  "Come on, now, slow it down a little bit...  I come to Osaka every once in a while, so I was wondering if I could call you sometime to get to know you a little bit better."  (He wished so hard for an Oscar at this point…)  He started to adjust the mirrors and such, looking at her occasionally.

            Aubrey giggled again.  "Sure.  I hope you don't mind that I already wrote my home and cell numbers on your contract."  She put her hands in her pocket, absent-mindedly bringing to attention her gut, which was hanging over the top of her too-tight pants.

            His nostrils flared and he smiled curtly.  Nothing turned Strike off harder than a desperate old-maid type…  He wasn't even entirely superficial when it came to looks, but this broad looked like she sent a couple of gentlemen to the 'gay' bin (**_and_** lesbians to the 'straight' bin) in her day.

            "How… thoughtful of you.  You must have been reading my mind," Strike retorted, getting comfortable in his seat.  "Oh, and before I forget," he said fakely… he reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a counterfeit $100 bill.  "Here's a little something for your… _troubles_."

            Aubrey gasped and smiled even bigger, like the Kool-Aid man in a smiling contest.  "_Thank_ you, Mr. Hahn!"  She quickly pocketed the money and looked like she was about to lean in the car to _hug_ him.

            Strike never sped away so fast in his life.

            He chuckled to himself.  That bill was _SO_ counterfeit she'd get put in jail just for pulling it out… at home.  That'd teach her to be rude…

            Heat cruised along, observing the view and keeping his mind focused.  Occasionally he would peek in the rearview to make sure the little one was still asleep.

            A few miles later, he arrived at the quarry, and parked near the lumber stacks after making sure no one was around.  He got out and carried Shorty's inert body to the building Strike had mentioned.  After he laid her on the couch, he locked her inside, got back in the car, and drove slowly to the very edge of the dumping area.  

            Heat got out of the car and looked over the great spread of water far beneath his feet.  A few miles away, he saw nothing but yards and yards of trees.  It was about mid-afternoon and the sun was beginning to hang a little lower in the sky.  He could admit that his adventures with Strike gave him access to a lot of beautiful scenes much like this one.  After taking a deep breath of air, he walked to the back of the car and pushed it until it rolled off the edge of the land and landed in the water with a resounding splash.  He stood there until the entire car was submerged.  Smiling, he lit a cigarette and walked back to the small building.

            When he got inside, he sat in chair close to the couch where Shorty was still snoozing peacefully.  Heat was beginning to wonder what it was that was compelling him to be so kind and understanding of this little one.  He liked kids and all, but there was something about this one…  Unfortunately, he knew her story all too well… being a lonely child who seemed to have no friends… and obviously craving attention from the parents…  And other things Heat was picking up from her that was starting to worry him slightly. Since he began hanging around Strike, he seemed to develop his own uncanny ability to sense such things.

            He continued to watch her sleep peacefully, waiting patiently for Strike to get there.  Heat was going to figure out what was going on… and hopefully sooner than later.  Taking another pull from his cigarette, he sat back to relax a little.

            Slowly, Shorty awoke to barely see a blurry version of Heat.  Stretching slightly, she looked at him until her vision cleared.  "H-h… Heat-san?" she asked groggily.

            Heat only responded by looking at her.  "You should keep resting," he said softly.

            "Does Strike-san hate me?"

            "Of course not," Heat replied.  "He's a little rough around the edges… and he expects a lot from people."

            "What does he expect from me?"

            "For you to behave yourself, mostly."

            "Like my Papa…"

            Heat looked at her and cocked an eyebrow up.  "What's it like in your family?"

            "Well… Mama and Papa are always busy.  All I do is go to school and go home… they don't talk to me much anymore… they're never around…"

            "Hmm…" Heat nodded slowly.  "Look… just chill out for now and go back to sleep."

            "I'm not sleepy, but I'll just close my eyes for a minute…"

            Heat smiled and continued smoking.

            Ten minutes later, Heat heard a sharp rapping at the window.  Goodness, there was gravel right outside and he hadn't even heard Strike walking up.  He got Shorty's attention so she could get up.

            When they walked outside, they saw Strike sitting in a sleek, sharp-ass black convertible.  Heat whistled as he led Shorty to the car.

            "Nice wheels, homes," grinned Heat as they got in.

            "'Pretiate it," said Strike, passing a fatty to him.  "Sorry it took so long… I had to deal with some bullshit at the rental place."

            "Oh, no!" shrieked Shorty.

            "What is it?" asked Heat and Strike simultaneously.

            "Columbo… I can't find Columbo!"

            The guys looked at each other.  "SHIT!!"

            Heat leaped out of the car and ran as fast as he could to the place where he'd dumped the Mustang.  Scanning around the water, he found the rat floating to the bank far below.  They couldn't afford to lose him… not yet, anyway…

            Heat performed a flawless swan dive into the water, and when he came up for air he swam towards Columbo.  Strike was watching the scene from above, and ran back to the car to get some rope.  When he got back, he tossed the line down to Heat, and slowly began to pull him up.

            Shorty ran to them and snatched Columbo from his rescuer.  "Oh, no," she cried hysterically.

            "Get back to the car, Shorty," said Strike.  "We'll do everything we can to revive him."

            Shorty obeyed him.

            Heat laid the mouse flat on its back.  "Um… I don't know about you, but I've never done this before, ese.  As a matter of fact… uh… I don't even think I feel comfortable with this."

            "I'll be damned if I do some fucking CPR on a rat.  Maybe we can just squeeze the water out of it… It's only so big."

            "You got a point.  You squeeze it."

            "Fuck that!" said Strike.  "You saved it, you squeeze it."

            "That's why I shouldn't have to do it!  I'm fucking _wet_ here, homes!"

            "Fine, fine, damn it!  We're losing time."  Strike carefully picked the rodent up and squeezed its midsection as gently as he could.  Heat looked on in disbelief, crossing his fingers that Strike wouldn't absolutely crush the rat in his large hands.  That's when he noticed that Columbo was wearing an unusual collar.  "Aw… come _on_…!!" the two said impatiently.

            Columbo farted.  Then squeaked.  Then farted again.

            The guys looked at each other, with their noses turned up, trying to ignore the stench.  "Well, seeing as he's okay, we should be going now," said Strike.  He stared blankly at Heat, as if he was almost horrified.  "This little fucker just _farted_ in my fuckin _hand,_" he said softly.  "You are _so_ dead after this job is over."

            Heat, cursing angrily in Spanish from his own problems, stood up and peeled off his wet shirt, wringing it out, and wiping his dripping bangs away from his face.  Strike stood up and looked at him, turning his nose up.  "Man, put your fuckin shirt back on, you ain't sexy," he quipped.

            The Fireboy looked at him and flipped him off.  "Fuck you, man, you wish you were as half as sexy as me," he replied jokingly.

            "If I was half as quote 'sexy' as you, I'd be somebody's midget wearing a g-string, some butt-less chaps, and a leather vest."

            The two laughed as they started to make their way back to the car.  "Fuck you, Strike, with your 'I-wannabe-a-Pantene-Pro-V-model-when-I-grow-up', long hair havin' ass."

            "Hell, I know you ain't talking witcha, 'Here-he-comes, here-comes-Speed-Racer', red-hair-dyeing, ol' muthafuckin 'my-sideburns-are-longer-than-the-rest-of-my-hair' ass mah-fuckah!"

            It was all Heat could do to keep from laughing his ass off.  Steam started to rise from his body; due to his insanely high body temperature, the water was beginning to disperse from his skin.  "As long as I can do shit like this," said Heat, bringing the evaporation process to Strike's attention, "you can talk all you want, hermano."

            "Sure thing, el niño," retorted Strike.  "I'll let you have that one.  Get us a nice new hotel to crash at and I'll leave you alone for the next, say… 3 hours."

            When they got to the car, Shorty peeked at them to see if Columbo was okay.  Strike handed the rodent to her.

            "He's gonna be just fine.  Now get your seatbelt on," Strike ordered.  Shorty happily held Columbo in her arms and obeyed.  Heat hopped into the passenger's seat.  He reached in his coat pocket and immediately got on his cell phone to get a room.  Strike pulled off his trench coat and hat, and put his hair back up in his trademark ponytail.  As he got in the driver's side, he gave himself a minute to breathe and collect his thoughts.  Shorty's cell phone had been taken care of; the old hotel was no problem because it was signed under yet another fake name.  Pinky should have been on her new job, and the next meeting with Hiro-kun would take place as soon as they got rid of the little one.  He had all his pawns set up carefully, and as soon as he got his info from them, he'd know how to make his next move.

            Strike's lips curled into a very wicked grin.  Soon, Kinoshima would learn that no good comes out of fucking with the man they called Notorious…

            Please be kind… review and make me smile. ^_^__


	12. Phase Eleven: Pinky's Second Job

            Pinky Diamond cruised down a long strip of road in her pastel pink Miata.  There were countless things racing through her mind, one of which was the growing resentment she had developed for Strike.  She didn't understand just how or why he was so powerful.  His reputation was well known; the mere mention of his name could strike terror in people's hearts.  She'd seen him a few times at the Diamond Paradise, the club where she stripped occasionally.  Perhaps he'd seen her, too, but he'd never let it be made known.  When she first laid eyes on him, though, she knew he was trouble to a certain extent, but she would never have imagined just how much.  Besides, most of the time, he would be unwittingly surrounded by a slew of the dancers, offering him free lap dances and other 'inappropriate' favors.  She'd heard one or two rumors from some of the dancers she was closest to… it wasn't anything too crazy, like him taking girls home with him, but it was enough to make her think.

            She looked at the directions printout that Heat had given her.  She really didn't want to do this job, but if nothing else, despite the negative aspects of his reputation, Strike was really a man of his word, and she would definitely get her money for it.  Besides, this job would actually be a little easier than the 'sniper' assignment she just went through.  Pinky just hoped that Strike wasn't planning any unexpected surprises.

            Pinky pulled up to her destination, and parked in a nearby deck.  She got out of the car, leaving her top down, and admired her reflection in her compact.  Her pink hair was down, with her bangs carefully swept to the side, and hanging a little past her shoulders curled upwards in the back.  She cautiously applied more lipstick, and lightly brushed down her clothes, a hot pink zebra-print tube top, matching hot pink micro-mini skirt, topped with a patent leather pink blazer.  After adjusting her clothes, she made sure her small gun was still tucked safely in her thigh-high pink patent leather stiletto heeled boots.  Finally, she gave the contents of her large pink purse a good once-over, and walked to the building, stopping traffic as she made her way across the street.

            When Pinky walked into the building, she noticed that it resembled a small law firm in appearance, with cushy chairs, expensive carpeting, and 'soothing' music playing low over high-quality speakers.  The reception area was empty, except for a blonde female sitting behind a desk, typing away dutifully on a computer.  Pinky read the name on the desktop, 'Kelly Riviera'.

            Kelly looked up at Pinky and gave her a sweet smile.  "Hi, how are you doing today?" she asked, almost beaming.  She had expressive blue eyes, and her hair draped almost ¾ down her back, full of body.

            Pinky returned the smile.  "Hi, my name is Keesha Somers," she said in friendly manner.  "I'm here to see Kinoshima-san."

            Kelly looked at her with a little surprise, and flipped through a thick book.  "Oh, I'm sorry Ms. Somers," she replied, "but it seems like your name isn't on the list today.  As a matter of fact… I don't see your name in here at all."

            "Oh, that's okay, I was sent here to give him a gift, and it really won't take that much time," said Pinky.

            "Well, he's really busy in a private meeting right now, and I have no idea how long he'll be… would you like to come back tomorrow?"

            "That would be really inappropriate for me… I'll just wait if I have to…  Say, have you ever had your palm read before?"

            Kelly looked at her blankly.  "I can't… say that I have, why do you ask?"

            "Oh, well, I read palms… I have tarot cards.  Actually, I do a lot of fortune telling.  Come on, the boss isn't around, and I know you don't want to risk more Carpel Tunnel at that computer.  Please, it won't take long," smiled Pinky, genuinely. 

            "Well…" Kelly looked around… "Sure, why not!"  She got up and walked towards Pinky, and they both sat down in two side-by-side chairs.

            Pinky smiled, almost devilishly, and held Kelly's left hand palm-up in hers.  Gently, she ran her long nailed finger along the assortment of lines on the palm.  Surprised by what she saw, she cocked up an eyebrow.

            "W-what is it?" asked Kelly, almost nervously.

            Suddenly, the lights in the reception area dimmed greatly.  "I see… that you have a lot of secrets… and you have a lot of love to give… you greatly desire love… don't you, Gemini?" asked the fortune-teller.

            Kelly gasped.  "How'd you- how'd you know that?"

            Pinky only smiled at her.  "You are very creative and demure by day, but another side comes out occasionally.  Like most Gemini people, it seems like you have two different personalities."

            The secretary looked on in awe.

            "I think I need to break out the tarot cards for you, Ms. Secretive," grinned Pinky.  She reached into her bags and pulled them out.  Kelly kept her free hand up to her mouth, trying to hold in her amazement.  Pinky shuffled the cards and instructed the secretary to carefully select three.  Kelly made her choices and handed them to Pinky.

            Pinky looked at the cards and smiled.  She began to explain the cards to Kelly, and explained that she did, indeed, live a double-life, currently unhappy with a lot of aspects in her daily routine.  However, because of her fun-loving nature, it was possible for her to find a way to balance everything out and keep a positive outlook.

            Kelly blushed, turning red as a beet.  "Wow…" she whispered.

            "And finally, since you've been so darling and nice to me," said Pinky, pulling out her crystal ball, "I'll let all this go free of charge, and I'd also like to give you this…" Pinky pulled out a small necklace with a gorgeous crystal dangling from it.

            Kelly's eyes lit up and she smiled in delight.  "Really?  Wow, thanks a lot!"  She put around her neck happily.  Pinky smiled and reached to push some of Kelly's hair back.

            "That looks very nice on you!" she cooed.

            "Aw, thank you," said Kelly, smiling humbly.

            "Now, put your hands on the Crystal ball," instructed the fortune-teller.  Kelly obeyed.  "I see your future…" Her voice began to carry an echo, and a bright light was cast from the orb.  She began to chant softly, and an unusual gentle breeze began to drift through the area.

            "Close your eyes and concentrate… and sleep… sleep," said Pinky gently.

            Kelly's eyelids grew extremely heavy… Involuntarily, her head began to nod, fighting the lethargic feeling overwhelming her…

            As she dropped into a very solid slumber, Pinky grabbed her upper body and pushed her back into the chair so Kelly wouldn't fall over.  She looked around to make sure no one was there, and walked to Kelly's desk to study Kinoshima's planner.  She'd seen a few of those names before, a lot of corporate bigwigs she'd heard of from other jobs she had to do in the past.  A meeting this big had to mean something huge was going on… oh, well, that's what she was there to find out.  She pulled a small device with a keypad out and affixed it to a secure spot on the underside of the desk, carefully attaching a few cables to the computer's hard drive unit.  A light on the keypad flashed twice, to which she entered the code 1-0-6-1-0-8.  The light turned off, for security purposes.  Wow, Heat thought of everything when it came to concealment.

            From there, Pinky stood up and readjusted her clothes.  She walked cautiously to a door that was feet away from behind Kelly's desk.  Looking around, she slowly opened the door to see a long hallway.  Pinky continued her cautious stroll down the way and listened carefully for activity in any of the rooms.  When she got to the third door on the left, she smelled cigar smoke and heard hearty laughter.  She smiled, adjusted her clothes again, and let herself into the room.

            There was a round table in the center of the room, with nine suited men sitting around smoking and laughing.  In the chair closest to the large window sat a middle-aged looking man, no more than 40, with soft dark brown hair, dressed in a sharp looking navy blue suit.  In front of him sat a laptop.  Despite his laughter, he had a very worried look on his face.  Hmm…

            Pinky Diamond cleared her throat and made her presence known.  All the gentlemen looked at her, a fine mix of different races, though mostly Asian.  Their eyes almost bugged out of their heads, staring at her from head to toe.

            "Greetings, gentlemen," she said, flashing them all a smile that seemed to light up the room.

            The gentleman in the blue suit said "Excuse me, ma'am, this is a private meeting--"

            "Aw, lighten up, 'Kino', said one of the Asian suited men.

            "Yes, please do," said Pinky, sauntering all the way into the room and closing the door behind her.  "I have a surprise for a man named Kinoshima."  She pulled a small stereo out of her bag.  "I've been sent here by somebody who's really concerned about you and says he sends his best regards."

            All the gentlemen began to look in the blue-suited man's direction, sending him knowing smiles.  "What's the meaning of this?" asked an African American gentleman, cocking up an eyebrow.

            Pinky set her sights on the blue suited man.  "Baby," she purred, "this one's for you!"  She started playing a CD in the stereo.  Instantly, loud, bass-heavy, upbeat music began to blare from the speakers, and she began to dance for them.

            The shocked quietness in the room turned into loud cheers and catcalls.  Pinky sashayed across the room, playfully removing her jacket and swinging it around above her head.

            Kinoshima was shocked, but he was quite happy.  All the gentlemen cheered happily.  "Lucky duck!" one screamed in his direction.

            Pinky put on one of her best shows; strip teasing and showing off her moves like the pro she was.  After she was down to her thong and wonder bra and boots, she sat comfortably in Kinoshima's lap and gave him an outstanding lap dance.  Needless to say, he was shocked, but very pleased.  As she undulated in his lap, she grabbed the underside of the table to support herself.  In her right bracelet was another smaller device with a tiny microphone.  The stripper rolled her body and looked back at the other gentlemen, smiling and loving her work, and looked back to the almost drooling Kinoshima.  Carefully, Pinky concentrated on placing the tiny device under the table, still dancing and smiling, giving her lap provider seductive looks.  When she was comfortable with her placement, she continued her show, and stood up on the table.

            From one end of the table to another, Pinky danced rather gracefully, and finally removed her bra.

            The men went wild, and 10, 20, even 50-dollar bills and an assortment of yen was being waved in the air for her.  Once her thong came off, the dollar amount increased.  She even smoked on a cigar, putting on more of a show for the men.

            Forty-five minutes and hundreds of dollars and such later, Pinky kissed Kinoshima's cheek lovingly as she put her clothes back on.  "Thank you for your time gentlemen, and I hope I brightened your day a little," she cooed.

            The gentlemen agreed heartily.  One of them even asked if she could come back the next day.  With the way they were flashing money, it may have been worth a go…  But she'd wait that one out.  She collected a few business cards and a few more tips, and then left as quickly as she'd popped up.

            "Ahh…. I think I'm in love," said one of the Asian gentlemen.

            Kinoshima was blushing insanely.  Wow… what a show.  He began to wonder who was thinking of him during this rough time in his life… Perhaps it was Strike…  He was nice enough to try to even find his daughter… maybe he was thoughtful enough to offer this wonderful stress relieving performance.  Hmm…

            When Pinky got back to the reception area, she flashed her crystal ball and awoke the inert Kelly.

            "Oh… what… what happened?" moaned Kelly, disoriented.

            "Girl, you passed out!" said Pinky.  "Do you feel alright?"

            Kelly looked around.  "Well… I… I guess so…" She pulled herself up from the chair, and carefully walked back to her desk.  "How long was I out?"

            "Oh, a few minutes…Well, look, I think I'll just wait until tomorrow, okay, I have an emergency to tend to… thanks for your time, and make sure you wear that crystal as often as possible- it has healing energies to counter your nervousness, okay?"

            Kelly nodded and smiled, holding her head.  "Thank you," she said.

            Pinky hurried and left, and ran back to her car.  She drove away, beyond pleased with herself, with very fat pockets indeed.


	13. Sexual Harrassment

            "Alright, make a left here," Heat instructed, giving Strike directions to the closest hotel with vacancies.

            "This place cool?" asked Strike.  "I want to make sure we're kind of low profile."

            "Hey, no problem, mi hermano," smiled Heat.  "I already know what we need."  He looked back at Shorty, who was drifting off again.  "I think it's another time to get the little one into 'game mode'."

            Strike nodded, when suddenly his cell phone started to ring.  He frowned because he was hardly expecting a phone call at this time.  When he looked at his Caller ID, the name surprised him.

            "Moshi moshi," he answered.

            "Yo, Strike?"  It was Pinky.

            "Yeah, what is it?" He shot Heat a strange look, as he made another turn.

            "I finished that job."

            "Shit, already?"  Strike sounded very impressed.

            "Yeah, so can I get my payment tonight or what?"

            "Ha ha, you thinkin' you're slick, eh?  Give me and my boy a chance to see if everything's working right.  I don't believe in going back and fixing someone else's fuck ups."

            "That's just fine," said Pinky smugly.  "Check all you want, but you'll see the job's been done just like you wanted."

            "Is that so?" smiled Strike. "It ain't often that a muthafuckah can come back to me with such a glowing report.  Keep your cell on, and I'll get back at you in the next half hour."

            "Alright.  See you later."

            "Yeah."  Strike hung up the phone, looked at Heat, who seemed to be rather confused at the time.  "Dude, you're smiling… what was that all about?"

            "That was Pinky," replied Strike.  "Seems like she's finished that little job I sent her on."

            Heat gave him a frustrated look of disbelief.  "Really?  We'll see when we get to the hotel."

            Strike laughed.  "Hey, don't sound so surprised.  A pigeon like that will do anything for money.  When we get past 4 figures, there's no telling what they'll do."

            The Fireboy shook his head and smiled.  "Hey, we're almost there," he reported.  "Just make a right at this light, and we'll see the hotel on the left-hand side of the street.

            When they arrived at the hotel, they looked up.  Hmm… Different floors this time.  "Alright, uh… put your coat and hat on the little one," suggested Heat.

            Strike shook his head, but went ahead and disguised Shorty.  "I'll chill out here until you get the room," he told Heat.

            The Fireboy nodded and went into the building.  Fifteen minutes later he emerged, telling Strike it was okay for them to go in.

            Strike draped Shorty over his shoulder like a rag doll almost.  She was completely engulfed in the coat.  Heat helped him collect their bags and they went to their room, on the 9th floor.

            The new room was a great deal bigger, two king sized beds, a bigger kitchen area with cupboards, a much larger bathroom area, and a balcony with sliding doors.

            Strike whistled as he walked in, and set Shorty in a chair.  "Impressive," he smiled.

            "You speak German, right?" asked Heat.

            "Yeah, enough to start a fight, talk shit through the fight, and enough to finish it," joked Strike.

            "Good, because I used a heavy German accent to throw the concierge off.  It's really sad that I can pass for my own 'celebrity look-alike'."

            Strike made a painfully annoyed face.  "You gotta be shittin' me," he said.

            Heat laughed and plopped down on a bed.  Strike, too, sat down on the free bed and pulled his shoes off.

            "Man, fuck, I haven't been to sleep yet.  Tonight, we need to chill.  It's one thing for me to sit in one spot for days at a time to snipe somebody… Being on the move is another… Shit, I ain't slept for about 5 damn days anyway."

            "Damn, homes, I thought you gave up that whole insomniac thing."

            "Shit, sometimes I wish I could…" Strike unbuttoned his shirt and laid back.  "Fuck, I gotta call that bitch back.  I don't trust her ass, I know she's on some bullshit," he grumbled as he pulled his cell from his shirt pocket to make the call.

            Heat got up and uncovered Shorty, then went to the refrigerator.  He licked his lips and pulled out some cold cuts and bread.  Wow… what a hook-up!  "Time to make some saaammiches," he grinned from ear to ear.  He already knew Strike would want some, so he whipped some up for him, too.

            "Yeah, so meet me up at the Emerarudo Bar in about 30, in one of the booths in the back.  Yeah, a'ight."  Heat handed Strike a plateful of sandwiches as he was disconnecting his call.  "Thanks, dude," he smiled, taking the plate.  After saying a small grace, he dug into the plate like a couth-less cave creature.

            For the next ten minutes, the entire room was quiet except for smacking and slurping and belches.

            "Hey, mi hermano, you make a mean sandwich," smiled Strike when he was done, getting up to put his plate in the sink.  "I'm 'bout to wash my ass before I start smelling like a barn creature."

            "Yeah, please, I don't want to have to make the noises at you," quipped Heat.  Strike flipped him off and disappeared into the bathroom.  "MOO!!!" 

            In the bathroom, Strike uttered, "Bitch…"

            When Strike was done with his shower, he continued his freshening process and put on a new outfit, jet black jeans, his favorite shell toe adidas, a white tank top with a button down black and white adidas sport shirt with three stripes going down each short sleeve.  He put his hair back up in the ponytail and sprayed on a little of his favorite cologne, Fahrenheit.  Heat was lounging on his bed, channel surfing like an addict.  He stopped on the Nature Channel; two dolphins were getting it on… yesss…  Strike looked at the screen, then looked at Heat.  "Look, Heat… _please_ go and get you some ass.  Please?"

            Heat turned his head to Strike, unfazed by his comment.  "Alright, sure, when you get some, I promise I'll get some the next day."

            "Hey, I ain't the one watching water mammals gettin' they _freak_ on.  Fuckin' virgin-ass."

            "Don't go there, ese."

            "Look, I don't _need_ to bone everyday, regardless of what _YOU_ might think.  Besides, I'm too busy to be worried about that."

            "Whatever, homes, that's why your ass is so fuckin _violent_ now.  When's the last time _you_ got your rocks off anyway?"

            "Touché," conceded Strike, holding up his hands like 'whoa'.  "Come to think of it, I really can't remember… which is a terrible thing if you think about it… If it had been any good, I would have been able to recall it…  See, that's why I don't bother anyway; I've never been with anybody who could handle me.  I need a challenge now."

            Heat looked at him blankly, pulled a blunt out of his pocket and lit it with his finger.  "Yeah, okay.  The same reason I don't bother.  So, hermano, leave me the fuck alone.  As long as there's porn in the world, I'll survive."

            Strike shook his head and put his trench back on.

            "Don't be gone too long, y'hear?" quipped Heat.

            "Please believe it.  I don't want to really go as it is, but the sooner I get this information and get this bitch out of my hair, the better.  Say, if possible, go ahead and hit Hiro-kun up and tell him to meet you somewhere, hell maybe here.  Even if you have to whip up some more 'nighty-night' cocktail, we can each kill a bird at the same time."

            "10-4, hermano," replied the redhead.  "Be careful, for real, okay?  Pinky gives me really bad vibes."

            Strike smiled and nodded, put on his shades, grabbed a small briefcase and left.

            Pinky was waiting patiently for Strike at the Emerarudo Bar.  She had just so happened to be close to the joint when she was on the phone with Strike.  Smugly, she smiled, quite contented with her work and her earnings.  Sitting comfortably in the booth and sipping on a Pink Panther, she pulled out her money just to count how much she'd made.  This work should have made sure that Strike would stay off her back for a _good_ minute.

            The bar was alive with a crowd of people watching different sports teams playing, placing their little bets or whatnot, just having a good time.  When an ominous figure stepped through the door, all got quiet.

            As Strike walked in, he scowled at the lack of noise and walked silently halfway through the bar.  He turned around to look at the crowd sitting directly at the bar, and they quickly started back with their conversations and rowdy talk.

            The black-haired man looked around towards the section with the booths and saw a big spot of pink in a semi-darkish corner.  He sighed and walked on in the direction, determined to keep his annoyance under wraps.  How he despised Pinky.  Average ghetto-ass chicken head…

            He sat down in the free seat across from the stripper.  "W'sup?" he asked in an unimpressed manner… Good God, she was slutty looking…

            Pinky flashed him a smile.  "Hello, Strike," she greeted.  She'd already picked up on his mood, so she figured she'd handle this quickly… ooh, but he smelled so good, and his clothes looked extra-nice.  That and his thick-ass Figaro necklace with the huge "S" charm studded with diamonds was extra eye candy.

            "So what did you get?"

            "I planted the devices and activated them like you asked."

            "Really?  Are they secure?"

            "But of course, baby.  You know I like to be thorough."

            Strike nodded.  "If I get back to double check and I find out you're lying to me, your throat is as good as slit."

            Pinky winced, and nodded weakly.  "It's just like you asked," she guaranteed, now rather uneasy.  Strike didn't have that reputation for naught.

            He stroked his beard in deep thought, reading her nervous energy.  Pinky may have been a dirty chick, but fear was a truth serum.  She knew he had no problems with getting rid of her.  He placed the briefcase on the table, and slid it towards her.  "That's your money.  Count the shit later; it's all there, and as you know, I'm a man of my word."

            Pinky took it and set it next to her.  "So, do you need me to do anything else?"

            "Nah, not now, but I _will_ be keeping in touch with you.  When I need you, you'll know."  He was looking around, slightly uncomfortable, for no other reason than him not liking this broad.

            "What's wrong?  Won't you have a drink with me?"

            He turned his head towards her and his face was relatively emotionless… that was all she could tell for not being able to see his eyes.  She began to wonder if anyone had ever seen his eyes…

            "Nah, I gotta bounce," said Strike, getting ready to leave.  Hurriedly, Pinky got up and sat right next to him.

            "I need to ask you something," she said.

            Strike sat back and scooted away from her slightly.  "What?"

            "Has anyone ever read your palm before?"  She gave him a rather seductive look, and brushed her sweeping bangs to the side with a long fingernail.

            "No, I don't go for that kind of shit," said Strike uncomfortably.  What the fuck was she up to, anyway?

            Pinky looked away.  She didn't know if it was the low mysterious lighting, or just her finally taking another look at Strike, but she was finding him very irresistible.  Maybe it was that she was a little tipsy, too…  "You seem really tense.  You were like that when I danced for you.  Why don't you let that guard down a little?"

            "Maybe because you tried to kill me, which is why I own you now.  Remember?"

            "I was just trying to make my money, baby… that was a mistake, but let me make that up to you.  I've heard a lot about you from quite a few of the other dancers at my club…"

            "Like what?"

            "I heard you have a nice package and you know how to work with it.  Maybe I can help ease some of your tension."

            A look of supreme frustration was screwed into Strike's face.  "Why the fuck is everybody so concerned with my sex life all of a sudden?"

            "Maybe you need to handle that…  I've heard you don't disappoint from a lot of chicks."

            "Let me get one thing straight right now.  I've only been with two of the chicks from your club.  Both were accidents on two different occasions, seeing as how I got hammered and well…one of them never lived to tell about it, so you ain't heard shit from that one."

            Pinky looked slightly surprised.  "You… killed her afterwards?"

            Strike narrowed his eyes.  His annoyance was growing by the second.  That was fine, she'd have to learn the hard way.  "Nah, she died _during_ it," he replied brusquely.  "Besides, that was _years_ ago.  I ain't on that tip now."

            Pinky took another swig of the beverage she was nursing, trying to figure out exactly what he was talking about… she started to get that frightened feeling again… but the alcohol was giving her a bizarre amount of audacity.  Damn, she was feeling so attracted to him… she undeniably wanted a piece of him.

            "I really need to be going now," Strike said impatiently.

            "Please, Strike, don't leave yet," pleaded Pinky, putting her hand on his thigh.  Strike frowned his disapproval, but made no effort to stop her.  "Look," he said, "I don't think you know what you're getting into."

            "I know what I'd like **you** to get into," smiled the stripper.

            Strike had a great amount of physical self-discipline.  Just this once, he let go of that, for the sole purpose of getting his point across.  "Why are you doing this, Pinky?"

            "You can't sit there and tell me that you don't find me attractive," she giggled.

            "Uh… Okay," replied Strike.  Behind the shades, eyes were a-rolling.

            "I can dance for you again, I can do _anything_… you'd… like," she drawled, moving her hand up his thigh, and gently went directly for his crotch.  When she got there, her eyes got extremely wide… she mouthed 'Oh my God', and seconds later her jaw dropped.  She gazed at him in sheer awe, and he sat there with a blank expression, except for one eyebrow raised.  For some strange reason, she couldn't budge her hand.

            "Please stop muthafuckin touching me," requested Strike, the violation of his personal space was immediately infuriating him to the highest degree.  He had to admit, the look on her face _was_ priceless.  That's how it usually was.  Hmm…

            The expression was still on Pinky's face, and it seemed like she was utterly paralyzed.  Strike grabbed her hand and pulled it away from his business, and set it on the table.  He felt the malicious verbal evil welling up at full force now; to get his point across further he was now out for blood.  "Listen, even if I _was_ a man whore interested in fucking every chick I came in contact with, I'd like to keep you alive because I'm not done with your practical services yet.  I don't have _anything_ you'd find easy to handle, Pinky; I'm _way_ above your level in every facet of your wretched existence.  Besides, I'd like a _challenge_ next time I get horizontal with a bitch, and you don't even meet my _lowest_ expectations.  I ain't found a bitch that can handle me **yet**, so that pretty much means you're assed out.  By the way, if you touch me or my shit again, I'll find a way to kill you **_twice_**."  He forcefully shoved her out of the seat, stepped over her and left.  Pinky was still lying on the floor in shock.

            When Strike got in the car, he looked down at his crotch.  "I'm sorry, that will _never_ happen again.  We'll get you disinfected later," he said as he started the car and was on his way elsewhere to clear his mind.  For the love of God, he loved women, and only women.  Not hoes, tricks, none of that.  He was beyond happy with the concept of being essentially abstinent until he found exactly what he was looking for, and that was hardly anywhere near the front of his mind…

            Maybe he should have sent Heat to do this instead… Nah… at that thought, Heat would have charred her for sure…


End file.
